Dark Valarr Targaryen x (Baelor’s) Baseborn Daughter
WARNINGS: Dark Romance, Toxic Obsessive Behaviour, Incest (Half-siblings), Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Sexual Content/Degradation, Toxic Comfort, Anguish, Forced Affection, Angst.
ADULT CONTENT NOTICE: This is a heavy, yandere-themed work with strict age restrictions. Minors are not permitted to read. Please check the content warnings below before continuing.
SUMMARY: When the silence of the chamber, steeped in her father’s memories, shatters at midnight, the thin line between loathing and obsessive love bleeds away entirely. The rustle of silks melts into the ancient Valyrian fire burning within his mismatched eyes.
AN: This is a purely fictional piece of creative writing, intended strictly for mature entertainment and dark fantasy exploration; the author does not condone or romanticize any of the toxic or non-consensual behaviors depicted within this work. It was inspired by Prince Valarr Targaryen, taking a darker twist on the lore established in George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire lore. Please read with caution and personal responsibility.
And also, English is not my first language, so please forgive any mistakes!! your comments and likes are greatly appreciated! Enjoy! 🖤
The sun was shining high above you over the rose-filled gardens of Summerhall, yet you could see nothing but darkness.
There you sat, perched upon a heavy, high-backed chair of dark oak, its armrests intricately carved with silver vines that bit into your palms. You may sleep in silk and dine from silver, yet the truth remains stark. You were a bastard of the blood royal, born on the wrong side of the sheets. This truth brought you bitter pain everytime you think,—to be the poisoned fruit of a forbidden love meant that the venom would, sooner or later, seep out. And that, no man could stay. Your purple eyes were fixed on the horizon, your thoughts entirely consumed by the towering shadow of your father—Prince Baelor, the Great Varis, the only man who had ever looked at you with a gentle gaze.
You were waiting. Waiting for a raven, a sealed parchment, a letter. a single word from him to you. A sigil of a royal house. Your father’s sigil. The three-headed Targaryen dragon, quartered with the sun and spear of House Martell.
But the letter you so desperately starved for would never come.
Across the realm, in the muddy, blood-soaked sands of Ashford, the realm’s ultimate justice had turned into a slaughter. Prince Baelor Break-spear was now, dead. his skull shattered in a Trial of Seven, his noble life snuffed out before he could ever send for his bastard daughter. And back in the gardens of Summerhall, the roses kept blooming, completely unaware that the shadow of the dragon was about to grow infinitely darker.
Instead, another letter arrived, one that shocked you deeply and almost kept you from mourning. A letter had come from your half-brother—the new heir to the throne.
In truth, it hadn’t always been this way. Once, you were in the Red Keep, right by your father's side. But of course, it didn't last very long. Memories of Valarr clouded your mind.
You were drawing the brush through your hair before the looking glass, slow and rhythmic. By rights, a maid of such tender years should have been dreaming of sweetmeats, of walking the bustling streets of Westeros with her septa, or running her fingers through the glossy mane of the courser Ser Raylon had readied in the stables by your royal father’s command. Yet, your mind held no room for such childish whims; it belonged solely to Valarr. Day in and day out, he flung your bastardy into your face like dirt. You did your best to avoid him, keeping mostly to the confines of your chambers. You possessed a sharp wit, far beyond your years, and it was that clever tongue alone that stayed his hand from worse cruelty.
Crushed beneath the suffocating weight of those thoughts, it was the sudden, breathless clutch of hands that dragged your soul from the drowning fires. A sudden tremor racked your bones, cold as if you had been flung naked into the shivering depths of the Sunset Sea. The comb slipped from numbed fingers, clattering uselessly against the floorboards. You could not turn; your very wit froze to ice within your skull. You know who it was. You knew it then, as surely as a hound knows winter. There was no mistaking that sharp, woody scent of his skin, nor the sour tang of spiced Arbor wine that clung to his breath like a shroud.
He tangled his long, heavy fingers into your hair, shoving you forward until his thigh pressed hard against your hip. As if he had been waiting for this very moment, he forced your face down toward the roaring, red fury of the fire. In terror, your hands clawed at his arms, struggling, your entire body trembling violently—but it was no use. He was far larger, far stronger, his massive frame trapping you from behind until you could see nothing but the hungry flame, He took a cruel pleasure in your thrashing. A low, mocking purr escaped his lips as he leaned in close to your ear. ”If you truly possess the blood of the dragon, you will not burn,” Valarr whispered, his voice laced with venom. “But we both know what you are.” You are darkness—a wretched, mistaken common blood, You belong wherever I choose to cast you. Do you truly believe my father will save a baseborn whelp like you? You are less than nothing—a stain upon his name. You will hide in the shadows for the rest of your life; that is all you are fit for.”
“My prince, p-please,” was all you could choke out, your throat tight with a suffocating knot. Silently, you begged for your handmaiden to walk through the door, your eyes spilling scalding tears that ran beneath his fingers and soaked into your gown. He paused for a moment. His gaze searched the sharp lines of your face before his thumb slid from your hair down to the soft curve of your jaw, brushing it with a touch so gentle it was terrifying. His expression remained unreadable, but his voice was a low, dark promise.
“You may weep,” he whispered, his thumb catching a stray tear, “but those tears belong to me. You will shed them only for me.” It was as if he had been waiting for this moment for a very long time. 'No no, It was as if he had been prepared for this very scene. I cannot resist you,' he breathed…his eyes blending with the light of the fire. You could not fathom which was hotter—and the very thought burned you, too.
Yet, there were times he would do things that truly startled you. Another memory surfaced in your mind. For he claimed to hate you, yet he still brought you these hidden wonders. He would wander through the shadowed gardens of King’s Landing, his eyes tracking your every move, tracing the path you walked. Now and again, he would emerge from the greenery like a ghost, a single rose held between his long, noble fingers.
“This is for you,” he would murmur, his voice as smooth and dark as Valyrian silk.
He would brush the soft petals against the tip of your nose and across your lips before pressing the stem into your hand.
His unpredictability was a beautiful terror, keeping your heart trapped in a cage of sweet anticipation. But his gaze followed you even where the sun could not reach. Upon returning to your chambers in the dead of night, you would find those very same roses—resting on the edge of your bed, or left upon your wooden desk, their petals bleeding into the candlelight. Sometimes, such things would happen; he would bring you jewels and silks from across the realms—but only until he played with you like a dornish puppetters.
Of course you also remembered his hand in sending you here; how could you forget it? it had filled your heart with a cold fire. He had orchestrated it all himself, using your own father to keep you writhing. No matter what you did, you had failed to convince your father. Valarr moved like a shadow through your world, slipping into your most private sanctuary while you slept, leaving behind a fragrant, crimson reminder that you were entirely, utterly surrounded by him.
“My father loves his honor, and because he loves his honor, he fancies that he loves you. But dear Uncle Maekar’s sons are whispering in the shadows. Aerion looks at you and sees a common whore to use; Daeron sees a stain to be wiped clean. I told my father that the Red Keep is no longer safe for a baseborn girl. I told him that your presence here breeds nothing but strife among the princes.”
Your breath hitched in your throat. No.
He wept, “you know,” Valarr continued, his purr filling the quiet room like poison. “Gods be good, they know how noble my Father is. He wants to keep his precious little mistake safe from his brothers' wrath. So, when the decree comes tomorrow, do not weep to him. It was by his own hand, by his own seal, that you are being sent away to Summerhall. He thinks he is saving you from the wolves.”
Valarr took a step closer to the door, his hand resting on the iron latch.
“But there are no wolves in Summerhall,” he whispered, plunging the room into a cold, dead silence. “Only me. I am the one who built that for you, and I am the one who will hold your love. Sleep well, my sweet. Your exile begins at dawn.”
You remembered it as if it were yesterday. You did not know how long he had labored over this plan; in truth, it mattered little whether you knew or not, for he obtained everything he desired from you anyway.
As you took your first steps into King’s Landing for your father’s funeral, a strange coldness washed over you. It had been so long since you last walked these grounds. You desperately wished to avoid the gaze of the other nobles; you knew their whispers would trap you in a cage of the mind, never letting you free. You were here only to honor your father’s memory and to see Valarr—the heir to the throne, the very man who had summoned you back.
Why you longed to see him was a mystery even to yourself. Though he had ruined your soul, you knew that with your father gone, Valarr would be the only one left to protect you. It was a twisted truth to bear, for in reality, he was the one who had sent you away in the first place, using your own father to do it.
Naturally, the first place you sought was your own chambers. No matter how much you had steeled your heart, the moment you crossed the threshold, you broke. Your tears flowed like a torrential river. Everything remained untouched, exactly as you had left it. It was not even dusty—a strange detail that made it feel as though you had only been gone for a fleeting moment. The fabric of your blue skirt brushed against the heavy carpet, creating a sharp contrast in the quiet room. Outside, birds chirped their hollow songs as the sun began its slow descent, bleeding gold across the sky.
As you approached your desk, you saw it: a single rose. The irony of it was so sharp that a bitter laugh nearly tore through your sobs. Gently, as if terrified of bruising it, you took the stem between your fingers and breathed in the scent of the soft petals. It had been freshly plucked; it was still alive. But just as the memories threatened to consume you, the door burst open—unannounced and sudden.
In strode the Crown Prince. His dark brown hair fell across his brow, save for that unmistakable, gleaming Targaryen streak. He closed the distance between you in two long strides. It had been so long. You could not speak; you offered no curtsy, nor did you utter his name. You merely stood frozen, staring at him, your heart heavy with your father's grief. To the realm, Valarr wore the flawless mask of the noble, mourning prince. Yet the very instant he was alone with you, that mask shattered—as it always did.
His fingers found your cheek, and your skin shuddered at the touch, forcing your eyes to close. He looked down at you with a strange reverence, his expression utterly unreadable. You still could not fathom why he had summoned you here himself. "It has been a long time," he murmured, his gaze scanning every line of your face, tracing every change. Suddenly, fueled by a burst of reckless courage you did not know you possessed, you asked, "Why did you summon me? It was you who sent me away, so why am I here now?" You were no longer a child, after all.
"First, I willed you to leave; now, I will you to return."
“My father died for nothing, for some hedge knight.” He Said, his voice turning mocking, repulsive. "And you are all that remains—carrying that infuriating goodness of his."
Yet, his words could ever replicate the lie. He had missed you fiercely, more than his proud tongue would ever admit. In the arms of the other women he bedded, it was your face he conjured in his mind; it was your likeness he craved. Yet, none of them could ever replicate the piercing storm that raged within your violet eyes—that fierce, defensive fire. The haunting sorrow etched upon your face in that moment was a prize worth conquering all Seven Kingdoms just to possess.
His hands traveled up to your slender neck. Tilting his head slightly, he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Once, he used to grip you cruelly by that very hair; yet now, in twisted contrast, he was so terribly gentle. His nostrils flared slightly as he drew in the scent of your skin. You pulled back just an inch, wanting to declare that you were only here for your father, but his presence already held you captive. Oh... how you had missed drowning in those colored eyes. No matter how desperately you tried to deny it to yourself, this was the absolute, undeniable truth.
His grip tightened around your wrists until it bruised, but then the expression on his face shifted instantly. He grimaced, releasing his hold as if burned. In urgent haste, you widened the distance between you. Rolling his eyes, he strode out of the chambers. Once more, he had shattered your heart,,,yet he had bound your very soul to his…
Days bled into one another, and you seldom ventured outside your chambers, constantly drowning in the shadows of your memories. Your maiden arrived to inform you that the Crown Prince demanded your presence at the feast, and several lords offered to accompany you for a stroll down The Street of the Loom, yet you politely declined them all. You hid behind the safety of excuses—whispering of a sudden illness, claiming you felt unwell, or stating that you merely wished to sleep. Inexplicably, Valarr pursued you no further. He granted you your solitude, yet his presence remained an inescapable ghost within your walls. Every evening, your supper was delivered to your chambers, and beside the silver platter lay a single, freshly plucked rose. It was a silent, intoxicating torture.
It was a wicked, carnal game; he was consuming you from afar, making you crave the very hands that had bruised your wrists, leaving you to drown in the agonizing warmth of his absence.
To escape the suffocating gaze of the other nobles, and most of all, Maekar and his children during your stay in King’s Landing, you resolved to visit the library of the Red Keep—just as you used to do in the old days to remain unseen. The very walls of your chambers were closing in on you, and you could bear the confinement no longer.
You possessed not a single fond memory within any corner of this palace. Yet, your feet carried you to that place you knew by heart. Even the Kingsguard looked upon you with hollow eyes, pretending not to recognize your face, and you, in turn, avoided any semblance of dialogue whenever possible. Aerion had cornered you a few times; one did not need much wit to read the dark, twisted lust gleaming in his eyes. Every single time, by some miracle, you managed to escape his grasp—gods be thanked. But however, with Valarr’s eyes constantly upon them, there was little they could do. Sometimes, you would spot Daeron wandering through the gardens in the dead of night from your balcony, and you would quickly step back into the shadows to remain unseen. As for Aegon... the Seven knew where he had vanished to, though whispers echoed through the halls that he had ridden off with that towering, massive hedge knight.
You stood in the library, accompanied only by the rustle of your silks, when you pushed open the heavy door of the library, it groaned on its ancient hinges. As you crossed the threshold, the fresh, woody scent of old parchment and bound leather enveloped you. It was a vast, timeless sanctuary. In truth, within the entire expanse of the Red Keep, you loved this place—and only this place.
You sank into the wide leather chair that still stood exactly where it always had, pulling a random tome from the shelf, and began to read. But the peace was fleeting. The silence of the library shattered as the heavy doors groaned once more. Footsteps echoed, slow and deliberate, until a shadow fell over your pages. You looked up to find Valarr standing over you, a wicked, knowing smile playing upon his lips.
"Are you hiding from me, my pretty sister? The Crown Prince summons you to his table, and you dare to not come?” he murmured, his voice a low purr.
my pretty sister... The word struck your mind like a bolt of lightning. Sister. For years, this man had broken you, trapping your body and soul within the cold walls of dishonor and illegitimacy—and now, he claimed you were his own blood. Against the wild turns of his mood, you had no shield left but your tears.
What are you reading?" he asked, as though nothing had transpired between you. He appeared utterly at ease as he slithered into the seat beside you, his leg pressing firmly against yours. Your face flushed, burning hot beneath his proximity. You swallowed hard, whispering the title of the tome: "The Loves of Queen Alysanne."
A derisive, mocking sound escaped Valarr’s throat. "What could you possibly know of love?" he sneered. Then, without warning, his voice sharpened, cutting through the air like a blade. "To whom did you open your legs for in Summerhall?"
The words struck you like a physical blow. You slammed the book shut with a resounding thud, drawing a sharp, ragged breath as you fought with every ounce of your being to hold back your tears. You turned to him, your gaze thick with a mixture of loathing and utter despair. “Of what are you accusing me?" you retorted, harboring a dangerous amount of boldness of late. Yet, he only tilted his head; the back of his hand traced the line of your cheek before he caught your palm in his, squeezing it tight.
"Or did you save yourself for me? How generous of you, my darling.” he murmured, his mismatched eyes now darkened into a singular, abyssal black. Void of all color.
Without a single word, you bolted from your seat, lunging toward the safety of the exit. But in a flash, his hand lashed out, gripping your wrist so violently that you stumbled. He pulled you close enough to feel his breath as he whispered, "I shall come to you tonight."
A jolt of electric terror coursed down your spine. Wrenching your hand free from his grasp, you burst through the heavy doors and fled into the corridor, your chest heaving with emotions you could neither name nor control.
By late afternoon, the stifling boredom had grown so heavy that you decided to steal away for a walk within the sprawling, grand gardens of the Red Keep. Courteously, you declined the company of a few lingering lords and your handmaidens, eager to be left to your own thoughts. As you stepped down the wide, sun-drenched stone stairs that led into the gardens, the heavy silk of your white gown swept the dust beneath your feet, its rich weight clinging to your body. Near the stables, a pair of Kingsguard knights inclined their heads in silent, solemn respect as you passed. It was a strange, almost unbelievable thing for a bastard girl to command such reverence from the court—but then, such was the power of having a father like Baelor Breakspear.
Beyond the stairs, Beyond the stairs, the great gardens of the Red Keep unfurled, a paradise built upon blood and ancient secrets. The gravel path was lined with crushed mint, its heavy fragrance filling the warm air. On either side, pale ivory roses bloomed alongside the deep purple of nightshade, their stalks standing tall like tiny spears. Weathered stone fountains spewed a cool mist into the heat, yet the splashing water could not drown out the distant clinking of mail and the heavy tread of the Gold Cloaks guarding the walls.
Ancient lemon trees leaned heavy against the stone cliffs overlooking the salt-bitter waters of the Blackwater Rush. Their golden fruits gleamed like stolen jewels amidst the dark leaves, but whenever the sharp sea wind rustled through the branches, the shadows beneath them only seemed to grow deeper, hiding the secrets of the court. At the far edge of the greenery, where the great oaks and tangled briars formed a natural wall, the suffocating silence of the Godswood began—a place where the court’s pretty laughter died, and the true, dark games of the castle were played in secret.
Toward the far edge of the grounds, the Godswood loomed—a silent, primordial wood keeping the ancient secrets of the old kings. You had read histories detailing just how much blood magic had been wrought within these walls since the dawn of the Targaryen dynasty. The air grew thick and cold, smelling of damp earth and rotting leaves. Overhead, sentinel pines and ancient oaks blocked out the bleeding sky, plunging the wood into a grey twilight. At its heart stood the great heart tree, its bone-white bark gleaming like a corpse in the gloom, its deep-red, weeping eyes staring into the souls of those who dared tread upon its roots. The silence here was absolute, broken only by the caw of a distant raven.
Then, through the suffocating stillness, a low, rhythmic murmur drifted through the trees, like the rumble of distant thunder. Your heart gave a violent thud against your ribs. You knew that voice; you knew it as well as you knew your own name. It was Valarr’s voice, thick and dark, speaking to someone in low, urgent tones.
Carefully, your fingers trembling, you gathered the heavy silk of your white skirts, lifting the hem just enough to keep it from rustling against the dead leaves. You pressed your back against the rough, moss-covered bark of a massive oak, slipping into the shadows to hide. A frantic voice inside your head screamed that this was madness, an absolute folly. To spy on anyone in the Red Keep was dangerous, but to eavesdrop on the conversations of the direct heir to the Iron Throne meant losing your head, no matter whose blood ran through your veins.
It was Bloodraven. A blackfyre. Another bastard. Like you.
Bloodraven had come to Baelor’s solar under the cover of a chill twilight, but it was Prince Valarr who met him in the shadows. The young prince’s face was a mask of cold fury. “If you wish to seat your children upon the Iron Throne, you must pluck the weeds before they choke the garden.” bloodraven says, "I want them rooted out," Valarr hissed, his voice low and jagged. "Branch and stem. I want their line ended, Brynden. Completely wiped out.
Your hands flew to your mouth in frantic haste, stifling a gasp as your knees trembled from the sheer shock of what you heard. Whose line was he speaking of rooting out? What was his game—would he truly slaughter his own cousins for the Throne? If so, it meant only one thing: your turn would come next.
His eyes fixed his single, blood-red eye upon the prince. A cruel, knowing twist touched his pale lips. "And what of the bastard girl?" Rivers asked, his voice a low rasp that seemed to carry the scent of old graves and sorcery.
Valarr went rigid as Valyrian stone, every muscle in his frame tightening like a drawn bowstring. Beneath his collar, the veins in his neck pulsed violently, a war drum heralding a slaughter.
Bloodraven watched him, the crimson orb of his eye gleaming in the dark. He thought of the girl—no longer a child, but a wench grown into a perilous, intoxicating thing. The sort of beauty that births songs, he thought, and ends dynasties.
"Perhaps I should make her my own," Bloodraven murmured softly.
Valarr’s gaze drove into the sorcerer’s lone eye like a poisoned spear. Heavy and deliberate, the prince's hand dropped to the pommel of his castle-forged steel, his knuckles turning white against the grip. He did not draw the blade, but the wind itself seemed to hold its breath. It was a silent vow; one more word from the bastard's mouth regarding her, and the solar would run red with sorcerer's blood.
“Make her yours, and I will not merely take your head," the Prince whispered, the words smooth as silk and heavy as a death sentence.
“Keep your eyes on the ground where they belong," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, dark purr. "For if those eyes wander to her again, I will carve them from your skull before I take your head. You want to wear the Hand’s badge upon your chest? You want to rule my realm? Then remember your place. Some treasures are meant only for dragons.”
The young prince did not wait for Bloodraven’s reply, nor did he grant him another glance. Leaving the icy weight of his words hanging in the air, he turned away with slow, deliberate steps.
The sight before you choked the very breath from your throat, leaving you praying that your own eyes were playing tricks on you.
The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of old cedar, lavender, and the bitter dust of things left behind. It was a room born of a father’s love, untouched by the cruel passage of years in King’s Landing, yet walking into it felt less like a homecoming and more like a sentence. The ghost of him lingered in every corner, a memory so sharp it caught in the throat like smoke.
You sank onto the great, soft bed, your fingers trailing over the fine silks. To be back in the shadow of the Red Keep without him was a heavy, hollow thing.
Seeking comfort in the familiar, you pulled a nightgown from the cedar press. It was a wicked piece of silk, dyed the color of bruised plums, the back plunging so low it bared the smooth curve of your spine down to the very swell of your hips. As the cool fabric slipped over your skin, your thoughts drifted into dangerous waters. Valarr. Bloodraven’s shadow hung long over Summerhall, and after the butchery at the Dragonpit, the Hand's cold eye was a threat to everything you held dear. “Would he strike at Valarr? Or Maekar—“
The thought broke like glass.
A hand, warm and calloused, brushed the bare skin of your spine.
You leapt, a gasp catching in your throat as your heart hammered wildly against your ribs. But before you could cry out, a pair of strong arms enveloped you from behind, pulling your back against a broad, solid chest. The scent of him washed over you—leather, smoke, and that sharp, masculine musk you knew better than your own soul.
"Ssh-h," a low voice purred against your ear, a sound like velvet dragged over steel. "It is only me. I told you I would come to you."
The touch turned agonizingly gentle, his fingers tracing the sensitive line of your neck with a feather-light stroke that made your skin prickle with heat. Slowly, deliberately, he gathered the heavy mass of your hair, brushing it over one shoulder to leave the long, pale expanse of your throat completely bared to the firelight.
Did you don this lovely silk for me?" he whispered, his breath a hot caress against the bare skin of your shoulder. “You wicked, beautiful thing.”
You tried to lift your gaze to look at his face, but his grip tightened, refusing to let you turn your head away. "Do not look at me with those eyes," he whispered, his fingers pressing bruised lines into your skin as he forced your stare to remain locked with his. "You tremble like a snuffed flame, yet you burn hotter than all the fires of Valyria.”
His hands began to wander, slow and possessive, tracing the sharp curve of your collarbone before sliding down the silk of your gown, mapping every inch of your body as if claiming a kingdom he had conquered. His palms were warm, burning through the thin fabric, demanding everything you had to give.
“Your Grace…stop it……you, I- We can’t do this…”breathed, your voice trembling like a leaf in a winter gale. You pressed your hands against his chest, feeling the heavy, steady thud of his heart. "You must stop- I will-“
He did not pull away. Instead, his grip tightened, his fingers pressing into your hips with a sudden, bruising force that made you gasp. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, as if the very scent of you was the air keeping him alive.
“Stop?" Valarr murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, obsessive register that vibrated against your skin. "I could tear this city down stone by stone, but I could never stop loving you. Let the red keep watch. Let them see what they made." He pulled you back against him, his embrace so fierce it stole the breath from your lungs.
“You think I hate you?" he whispered, his lips brushing your earlobe with a terrifying tenderness. "Perhaps I do. I hate how you rule me. I hate that my soul belongs to you, and not to the Iron Throne. But you are mine. Every inch of this beautiful skin, every breath you take in the dark. I would burn the Seven Kingdoms to ash before I ever let another man look upon you in this gown. Tell me to stop again, and I will only hold you tighter."
The harder you strained against him, the tighter the trap closed. His arms were iron bands, crushing the breath from your lungs until the silk of your gown felt like a shroud. There was no gentleness left in him now; the slow, honeyed prince had vanished, replaced by something wild and starved.
When you turned your head to breathe, you saw his face in the dying embers of the hearth. His breath came in ragged, animal gasps, and his eyes—those strange, mismatched eyes the gods had cursed and blessed him with—were burning.
The fire, you thought, a cold dread pooling in your belly. It is the same fire.
Whenever he looked at you, that purplish-dark flame flickered in his gaze, a madness born of Old Valyria that threatened to consume everything it touched. Now, those eyes seemed to pierce straight through your flesh, stripping away your pride, your will, your secrets, until you were nothing but bare skin and beating heart beneath his gaze.
You felt yourself drowning in the sheer, suffocating weight of his presence. His scent filled your nose, his heat baked your skin, and the terrible truth of it washed over you like a wave on the Blackwater. He was taking you. Not with a blade, but with a possession so absolute it left no room for retreat. You were in your room, surrounded by the quiet dead, but Valarr was the only living thing that mattered, a predator claiming his prize, and you had no strength left to stop him. His hands slid beneath the thin plum silk, cold against the rising heat of your skin, before one crept upward across your belly to find your breast. He squeezed with a bruising, desperate force that wrung a sharp gasp from your lips. Before you could find your footing, he thrust you back against the heavy oak vanity—the same mirrored table that had stood here since your childhood, unyielding and timeless. His movements were swift, jagged with a starved ferocity. In this room where he had once brought you pain, he was now bringing you to your knees, worshipping you like a pagan god at a bloodstained altar.
He pressed his full weight into you, pinning you against the hard edge of the wood until the breath left your lungs. He was fighting to close every inch of distance between you, striving to melt two bodies into one. With a sudden, downward jerk of his hands, he ripped the straps of the gown away, pooling the fabric at your waist. The cool air of the chamber hit your bare flesh, and a hot, crimson flush rushed to your cheeks. Shame and desire warred within you; you tried to bring your hands up to cover yourself, but he caught your wrists, pinning them flat against the dusty wood on either side of your hips. You fumbled with his clothes, trying with clumsy desperation to shed them, but Valarr caught your hand, pressing a swift, feverish kiss into your palm. In a blur of movement that seemed almost unhuman, he ripped his own tunic free and cast it away into a distant corner of the room.
He leaned down, the tip of his tongue tracing the soft curve of your earlobe, savoring you as if he meant to devour you whole. He wanted every inch, every taste, every secret your skin held. Down his mouth wandered, finding the fluttering pulse point at your throat. Your heart hammered wildly beneath his lips, a trapped bird trying to break free. His gentle grazes turned to wet, lingering kisses, and those kisses sharpened into biting nips, leaving fierce, dark marks upon your pale skin—stamping his sigil into your very flesh.
He took your right hand in his, forcing your fingers down between your bodies until they brushed against his trousers. You felt the heavy, rigid length of him, shifting and hot beneath the cloth. your breath hitched, and a deep, aching sensitivity bloomed in your chest. With every heavy rub of his hips against yours, a slick heat pooled between your thighs, betraying your terror.
"Look at what you do to me," he growled, his voice thick with a dark, intoxicating lust. He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered those terrible, beautiful promises. "I will make you as my wife. I will grant you legitimacy. You will bear me sons. You will give me my heirs."
"No... I—" the protest died in your throat, weak and trembling.
"Yes," he rasped, the word a heavy blade cutting through your defiance.
His free hand gripped your jaw, forcing your face up until your eyes met the silvered reflection in the ancient mirror. "Look at how beautiful you are," he murmured, his voice cracking with an obsession that seemed to choke him. "I have dreamed of this in the dark... for so long."
A shiver of pure, unadulterated pleasure broke through your shock, a soft cry escaping your lips.
"Ah... so beautiful," he whispered.
Then came the sharp clink of metal—the heavy buckle of his belt being undone. He discarded his trousers with a swift, impatient movement, his eyes never leaving yours. It was the look of a wolf that had finally cornered its prey, triumphant and starved. No, not a wolf. A dragon.
“Kneel,” he said, and the word fell between you like a command spoken from a throne.
Something had changed in him.
Desire had carved new lines into his face, softened some things and sharpened others. His eyes seemed darker than before, bright with a heat that bordered on dangerous. You had seen anger kindle behind those lilac eyes like wildfire set loose upon a summer field. You had seen sorrow settle upon his shoulders like a winter cloak. You had heard him laugh, had watched cruel amusement dance across his features when some lord or fool made a spectacle of himself. Or perhaps you had simply never been close enough to see this..
Something far more dangerous.
The candlelight clung to the sharp planes of his face, gilding silver-gold strands of hair and casting shadows where shadows had no right to linger. For a moment, he seemed less a prince than the memory of one of Old Valyria’s dragonlords, returned from ash and ruin.
“Don’t look at me with those eyes.”
His voice came low, scarcely louder than a murmur.
He wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked it slowly, once, twice, then again. A groan tore free from his throat, deep and warm, the sound of a man surrendering himself to pleasure.
Your hands found his thighs, fingers trailing over hard muscles. You were losing yourself now. The world beyond the room seemed distant and unreal. There was only him, only the heat between you. You opened your mouth without hesitation and took his warmth into it.
You opened your mouth and took him in.
A shiver passed through him, fleeting as a gust of wind across still water. His hand found your hair at once, fingers threading through the strands before closing tightly around them. Yet he did not pull. He merely held you there.
A sharp breath escaped from Valarr.
You pleasured him with your mouth while your hands moved in tandem, and the sight of it drew another low groan from him. Every now and then, his grip tightened and he nudged you forward, subtle but unmistakable.
The effort made your throat tighten. You struggled against the reflex, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. Moisture glistened upon your lips and spilled down your chin, It dripped upon the rug, pooling there as if the tapestry of time itself had paused to bear witness to the fall.
Then, with a soft pop, he withdrew and wrapped his hand around his cock once more. Looking down at you, he brushed it lightly against your lips several times, the gesture unhurried, almost contemplative, as though savoring the sight before him. The faint curve of his mouth spoke of satisfaction, and perhaps of something darker still—a victory long anticipated and at last won. He hauled you to your feet with brutal swiftness and stepped behind you. At that very moment, your stomach churned, utterly sickened by the torrent of conflicting emotions crashing through you.
Valarr hooked his fingers behind your knee, lifting your leg and resting it high upon the dark wood of the vanity. You yearned to touch him, yet he refused to grant you leave to turn. "No," he commanded, "I mean to watch." He had entwined his venomous vines about your very soul; there was no escaping him now. He pressed himself against your thigh, rubbing his wet, rigid steel against your opening once, twice, maddeningly slow, tormenting you with the promise of what was to come.
A sharp cry escaped your lips as his mouth fell upon your shoulders, leaving a trail of hungry, wet kisses against your skin. Then, as he began to push slowly inside you, your entire body trembled with the sudden sting of pain. Another gasp tore from your throat, and through the heat of the moment, Valarr murmured against your ear, his voice thick and rough, "Ah, yes... make a sound for your prince."
His hands gripped your hips with a bruising force, each deep, heavy thrust striking with a fierce intensity that felt almost too much to bear, tearing through your defenses. He buried his face in your hair, breathing in your scent as the initial pain began to blur, slowly melting into a blinding, overwhelming pleasure.
He kissed every single inch of your skin, his mismatched eyes looking almost entirely black in the dim light of the chamber, consumed by a wild Valyrian fire. As he drove you closer and closer to the edge, your own vision began to darken at the corners, the world spinning away until there was nothing left but him. Right as the peak approached, his hands moved up to find your breasts, catching the sensitive tips between his fingers, squeezing and twisting as he claimed you completely. There was no escaping his grasp now; the venomous vines had long since bound you tight.
The mingled moans of you both dissolved into the heavy air of the room. At one point, a sudden knock echoed against the wood, yet because the Crown Prince was within, no soul dared to intrude. Your muffled gasps soon surrendered to vocal cries, and your cries turned into sharp, piercing screams of ecstasy. With agonizing effort, you turned your head toward Valarr. A bead of sweat rolled from his forehead, tracing down toward his eyelashes. Breaths coming in ragged gasps, you parted your lips to speak, but he noticed instantly. Devouring the invitation, he pushed his tongue deep inside, invading the very depths of your throat. His hands clamped around your breasts with such a bruising, merciless force that it was certain they would leave the dark imprints of his fingers behind.
You were so utterly lost to ecstasy that you began to move in perfect rhythm with him, delicious moans spilling from your lips.
“Ah... do not stop, p-please...”
you whimpered. He quickened his pace, the feverish slap of flesh against flesh growing louder, more violent. Then, with a deep, guttural groan, he came inside you, filling your womb with his wet seed. As the warmth began to seep down between your thighs, trickling toward the floor, your legs gave out completely. You sloped back, leaning your entire weight against him.
Bent over you from behind, he bit your hip with a force that brought a sharp cry of pain to your throat, his fingers tracing the tender skin behind your knees. You groaned, and in that shattered silence, He bowed before you as if in the presence of a king, stealing the very breath from your throat, his eyes never straying from yours. His naked body mirrored the ancient majesty of Valyria.
he whispered words you never, in all your life, expected him to say:
“Do not lay me beside my father, for he chose the light... Let them leave me in your darkness, buried only within your heart. I will die for you.”
