Faye

irl helaena targaryen

[rise-my-angel]

Unpopular opinion: Rhaenyra is worse at being Queen then Aegon was at being King.

She is never confident, never knows what to do on her own, leans so heavily on people that at her age and level of power she has held for so long she definitely should know more then this.

Aegon had no training either and despite some rocky starts, was almost always confident, was right in his plans he came up with on his own, and did not have to rely solely on other people to lead him towards making decisions.

Every single time Rhaenyra had to act as a Queen in this show, she looks and acts like she's uncomfortable and unintelligent whereas Aegon was full of confidence and reason for his choices, whether you agreed with them or not.

I dont know if this is a writing problem, or an acting problem, but it makes everything Rhaenyra does as Queen look like she is totally incompetent.

[renta-bat]

Jason talking to Dick about dating Babs

Also Jason:

[iicarusflew]

habitual

“All yours,” Alyssane announces as Valarr opens the car door.

Tanselle sniggers from the driver’s seat. You giggle, loud enough for the sound to flutter against your ribcage, and you fall against your friend. Your head zings, a giddy, gleeful sound escaping from your mouth at the sight of your husband in all his bedtime glory. Standing in his dark tee and grey trousers, dark hair ruffled, the silver streak gleaning in the sodium light of your driveway and his eyes—gods his eyes—melting like two drops of light. Valarr ducks down to get his head inside the backseat of the car, his upper body bending to settle his space into yours.

tags: established relationship; domestic fluff; married couple; drunken talk; soft Valarr; husband Valarr; modern au

inspired by this cute ask

“All yours,” Alyssane announces as Valarr opens the car door.

Tanselle sniggers from the driver’s seat. You giggle, loud enough for the sound to flutter against your ribcage, and you fall against your friend. Your head zings, a giddy, gleeful sound escaping from your mouth at the sight of your husband in all his bedtime glory. Standing in his dark tee and grey trousers, dark hair ruffled, the silver streak gleaning in the sodium light of your driveway and his eyes—gods his eyes—melting like two drops of light. Valarr ducks down to get his head inside the backseat of the car, his upper body bending to settle his space into yours.

“Oh, gods,” you huff. “You’re so pretty.”

He laughs, and the sound is like firecrackers, like a sudden, ferocious burst of light. You feel Alyssane poke the side of your ribcage and you don’t care. A cluster of butterflies waft their unsteady wings against your stomach. 

“Well, you say that because you haven’t seen my wife,” he replies.

Tanselle groans. “Get your tacky romance out,” she says, “of my car.”

“She’s just jealous,” Jeyne fake-whispers from the passenger seat, and another groans cracks inside the stuffiness of the car.

“You have a wife?” You push out your lips in an overly exaggerated pout. “And here I thought I had a chance.”

“Mhmm.” He hums. “A pretty thing like you? Sure you do.”

“Is your wife home?”

He licks his lips and your hand reaches out, like a reflex, to trace the edge of it. “Not yet.”

“We have to be sneaky, then.”

“We have to be quiet.”

“I can be quiet.”

Valarr rolls his eyes, helplessly fond. “My darling, you are never quiet.”

You let him sneak his arms across your waist. You sniff, unabashedly, to get the smell of him. He smells as he always does—clean detergent, a slight whiff of coffee and cinnamon. Like home. Like yours. And even in the drunken, post-slump haze of your head, you know the shape of him, the exact warmth of him, fitting on the cold spots of your body like it’s meant to be. He gets you out with surprising swiftness. 

Your girlfriends coo and cheer behind your back. Jeyne hands him your bag and he slings it over his shoulder, his other hand bracketing your entire body. You cling to him like a child, sleepy and drunk and so so rested that this, the smell, the texture of his worn-out tee shirt, the slight scratch of his weekend stubbles against your forehead feels like a dream. You rest your head on the crook of his neck, and you hear the engine of the car drive away and the night shrivels around you like a shot of clean, cool air.

Valarr kisses your forehead.

You pout. “I’ve been a bad wife. I didn’t do groceries and I got so drunk…”

“You’re such a good wife.” Valarr hums as he carries you to the door. The long, arched building is a welcoming sight after a much-needed girls’ night out. Your doorman greets you as Valarr reaches the elevator. 

“Did you have fun?” he asks, pushing the button of the penthouse.

“So much fun. We talked and we laughed and Ally said we should order shots and we ordered a line of shots and we got so drunk, baby. It was fun.”

 “That’s all that matters.”

You nuzzle your nose against his throat. You smell him again. “That’s all that matters?”

“Yes.”

“Missed you, though,” you whisper against his skin and watch in quiet wonder as a soft patch of flush blooms there. “Missed your smell. Your voice… your touch.”

“Yeah? I missed you too, sweetling.”

The elevator rings as it reaches your home. He steps inside with you and you are greeted with the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Your heart squeezes at the gesture. He’s been waiting for you.

You perk up your head. “What did you miss about me? Tell me.”

The smile he offers is everything—everything. It’s the drunken haze of a blissful night and the sharp-shooting clarity of the morning after. He is the softness of a smile and the ache of a ribcage strained against your chest. He stares at your eyes and your lips and your heart picks up, sensate, arrhythmic, too fast and too much and you love it just as much as you love him.

“I’d rather show you.”

“Yeah?” You lean up and get closer to his face. Your lips hover, only hover—a slight, soft brush—the barest connection between his atoms and yours. And you feel him flutter, all of him, recognising your atoms. He’s always been terribly responsive to you, drunk or sober. It has always been like this. You call and he answers. And you feel your blood dance at the sight of him, the unabsorbed alcohol in your system simmers. “Good. Because I’m your girl.”

His smile widens and your lips brush again. 

“All mine.”

more of my stories

akotsk masterlist

[myladyship]

I love the trope of wifey being dressed to the nines and Hubby being proud and smitten by his lady love's beauty.

He goes from 'Look at my wife!" and then it quickly goes to 'Don't look at my wife!' because he does not like the way some men are looking at her.

[brutalizermp3]

Slow - V.L

summary: Valarr gets a migraine and nothing but Aerion’s weed can help him deal with the pain. Trouble is, Valarr is no good at getting high and the only thing that can help him deal with that, is you.

tags: fluff, Camp Counselor!Valarr, smoking, Aerion being a terrible trip sitter, really no plot at all poor boy literally just greens out and needs a hug

wc: 1.2k

A/N: Yo...this was meant to be a drabble but then i checked the word count and. well. Welcome to the first official Summer/Slasher AU fic! sweetiepie summer romcom Valarr i love u forever...don't tell him but i like his freaky slasher counterpart better though

also a rare bit of pure fluff! that's that pure Valarr/Oscar Morgan boyfriendism. sick and, quite frankly, twisted. what is he doing to me. freak shit will be back on soon. | Summer Camp AU masterlist

Sometimes–and only on those extremely rare occasions–it’s an incredible bit of luck that Aerion is such a shithead. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have–yet again–flounced the obvious, necessary camp rules against substances. 

Valarr did try to stave off the headache before it got to this point. He’s been popping painkillers all day, moving slow through every activity. Most of the day, he’s been hunkered down inside, chugging lukewarm water from plastic bottles and helping Mrs Fossoway in the nurse’s office, instead of going on a hike with Tanselle and the kids. Eventually, he couldn’t even hack that, so now he’s splayed in bed, scowling at the ceiling and waiting for Aerion to bring him some weed. 

He doesn’t knock, just bursts through the door, mid-sentence as if Valarr could hear him from outside.

“I don’t know who the fuck he thinks he is, just because he’s twelve feet fucking tall–Oh, are you asleep?” 

Slowly, Valarr sits up. He lets out an exhausted sigh and shuts his eyes when his back hits the headboard. “Is this the catch?” 

“You what?” 

“Listening to you rant about poor Dunk in exchange for a joint.” 

Aerion scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. Half a joint.”

Valarr purses his lips. Honestly, from Aerion, he should’ve expected less. 

By the time his migraine has subsided, he’s definitely smoked more than a half, and Aerion is being suspiciously friendly. Everything is a little suspicious, actually. 

“What the fuck was that?” He nearly jumps out of his skin when something dark and swift darts past the window. Aerion blinks at him slowly.

“A leaf.” 

He nods to himself, desperately trying to calm down. Head leaned back against the headboard and blinking manually, it absolutely isn’t working. “Is it always this fucking hot?”

Aerion is still smoking, and it swirls thick and translucent over his face. “You’re the quasi-American, you tell me.” 

Valarr ignores him to stumble for the window, trying with a baffling degree of difficulty to pry it open. Aerion watches. At first absently, then with a disbelieving grin stretching across his face. He breaks into dopey, stuttering laughter. 

“You are so high.” 

“Am I?” Valarr feels his pulse start to race. “Shit. We’re gonna be in so much trouble.” 

“Yeah,” Aerion drawls, “so much trouble.” He waits, the prick, until Valarr is staring at him, wide-eyed with panic. “Might even get fired. Might never be allowed to come back. Hey, are you hungry?”

“No, no, no, no,” Valarr mumbles. He’s shaking his head, patting his body down like he can reach inside and pull the THC out. Aerion just throws his head back and cackles.

“It’s not funny. I think–” He gasps, steadying himself against the windowsill. “I think I’m having a heart attack.” 

“You’re not dying, my God.” 

Valarr’s eyes snap up. “I could die?” 

“Jesus Christ,” Aerion mumbles. “Is this what we’re doing now? Are you gonna be like this all afternoon?” 

“No.” Valarr pats himself down again, satisfied when everything is still intact, still where it’s meant to be. “No, I’m fine.” 

He sits on the edge of his bed and stares into the space ahead of him. 

“What about her?” Aerion asks, clearly disinterested.

“Hm?” 

Aerion narrows his eyes and repeats your name. Apparently, Valarr said it first, though he doesn’t remember that and he doesn’t trust a word out of his cousin’s mouth. 

“Why would I lie about that?” Aerion shakes his head then pauses. “You know what?” 

With that, he’s up and gone. For about a minute, Valarr is spooked by the sudden change. He knows it’s a minute, because he counts every second of it to avoid having another panic attack. He curls himself sideways on the bed, clutching a pillow to his body and focusing on his breathing. It’s the kind of thing he would’ve learned from a therapist if he’d ever had one, but this little nervous-system-regulation trick came direct from a vague Google search. Years, or months, or weeks ago. Valarr panics quite a lot. 

He’s just about calmed down when you walk into the room and just your mere presence has him swing all the way back to goofy-high. Pushing the pillow aside, he says your name with a lopsided grin. 

“Hi there,” you greet. His grin levels out but he’s too blissed-out to speak. God, you’re so pretty. 

“Valarr, you’re staring.”

“Yes,” he says, bursting into laughter as if he didn’t expect you to notice but is thrilled you have. Doubled over with wheezing laughter, it takes him a moment to realise you’ve shuffled closer. As soon as he does, he stops laughing. 

“Are you good?” 

His mouth dries up but he tries nodding, certain that you need him to be, that if he isn’t something horrible is bound to happen. “I’m okay. Is that okay?” 

Your face breaks out into amusement. Trying not to laugh, you lean against him and turn your face away. When you turn back around, you’re biting your lip. Valarr’s brow dips in distress and a rush of breath slips past his lips. God, you’re so pretty. 

“Hey, do me a favour? How about you lie down for me.” 

He feels like he’s hearing the words from underwater. “Okay.” 

You slip off your shoes and sit cross-legged on the bed, leaning back against the wall. Dim, mid-afternoon light shifts as a breeze blows, and everything but the bed is tinted by shadows. Cool, white light on your skin, adding a gentle shine as your hands rest on your knees. You tilt your head at him, and Valarr is reminded of all the times he’s passed by wandering cats slinking around in the street, the quiet stand off where he stares, in part too awed to move, to blink, to breathe. The other part of him wants to reach out and beckon it forth, cradle it in his arms, take the creature home and spend the rest of his life taking care of it. Jesus Christ, have you always been this pretty?

You sit there blinking at him, biting your lip again and trying not to laugh. “Are you gonna do it?” 

“Huh?” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“Have to what?” 

You’re laughing for real now, shoulders shaking as you reach an arm out. “C’mere.” 

With your hand as a visual cue, he can stay switched on enough to fall into your lap, lips stretching into a dazed smile. 

“I thought I was gonna die earlier.” You giggle, so he keeps going. “My heart was–”

He contracts and pulses his fist to mimic a heartbeat, eyes widening as he remembers the racing and the sensation of falling, the unshakeable knowing that he was doomed. 

“I’ve always thought I would die young.”

“Oh, hey,” your hand snakes into his hair and you shake your head down at him. His body melts against yours and he shifts his head, nudging your hand deeper in his choppy chestnut locks. “We don’t have to talk about that. Not right now.”

“Yeah,” he replies, voice distant. “I smoked way too much.” 

This, too, makes you laugh. Satisfied, he lets his eyes fall closed and turns his face into your palm. Your hand in his hair should lull him to sleep but like a stubborn kid, he turns onto his back to look up at you, despite his yawning. 

“You’re not tired?” 

He nods, keeps looking. His tongue is too heavy in his mouth to say anything, but the way your clothes are falling on your body, and the soft light haloed around your head. God. What use would sleep be to him right now? He might as well already be dreaming. 

“Pretty,” he mutters, breathy and slightly slurred as he drifts off. Your fingers keep combing through his hair as he says it again and again. He falls asleep slightly pouting, lips still poised to utter that mindless prayer. He won’t actually remember but as his brain finally shuts off, he’s certain that he will in fact, dream of you.

taglist: @summer-nabi

[julez-5]

I ran here quick when I saw an ask about taking Valarr request….,

Valarr x Yapper!Reader…, because the prince seems like a quiet guy, but he’d be so happy with a yapping gorgeous wife, he just be heart eyes for his bride, who tells him all the gossip she has heard from the Red Keep, or dry humour and sarcastic wits about anything.

Don’t need to write right away, just something to think about hahah

I COULD LISTEN TO YOU ALL DAY—Valarr Targaryen

Valarr Targaryen x wife!reader

content: Valarr’s favorite activity of the day is to simply lie back and listen to his wife talk for hours.

words: 1k

cw: none that I can think of. simply just love sick Valarr listening to his wife talk.

a/n: oh my sweet prince who I often neglect to write about because I am always thirsting over his father and uncle 😔 also here is a small drabble as I work on my other stuff

The sun had long set, the doors to the balcony open allowing a slight breeze to flow through the chambers. It had been a long day of listening to men argue in council, performing duties, and staring at parchment until his eyes crossed. Even now when his body ached for sleep he would not give him.

Not because he had more duties to uphold to, but simply he could not spend his time doing as he wished. He was right where he wanted to be lounging back against the piles of pillows, a hand tucked behind his head the other resting against your thigh.

You sat up straight, your hair unbound moving slightly as you tilted your head back and forth. Your hands moved widely as you made gestures to follow through with your stories of the day. Both that included you and simply ones you had heard through the line of gossip.

He did not care for gossip. He did not often indulge in it himself, but by the Gods he loved to hear the tales that came from your pretty lips. Of who was partaking in what scandalous activity and better yet your own thoughts about the situations.

This was the best part of the day without a shadow of any doubt. Where the pair of you could simply be two young adults in love, without the constant eyes on you. Where he could stare at you as long as he wished without someone else begging for his attention some important matter.

Nothing was ever more important than you, but alas as a prince and future Heir to the Throne duty always called, and must be upheld.

He had always been regarded as quiet, respectful, and watching. You were on the opposite side. You had always talked, a lot according to your family. To which they regarded as a flaw, but he disagreed.

He loved the sound of your voice. He loved listening to the workings of your mind or simple observations you had picked up on. He would never speak again if that was what it took to hear your voice forever.

You were so bright. So beautiful and filled his world with so much light it brought him peace. That despite all the chaos, all the weights on his shoulders he still had this. He stull had his small moments of solace of being your husband.

It was his favorite title. One he wore with pride and made him peacock around more than the one of prince ever had.

You were his and only his.

He watched you carefully, listening to every word you deemed him fit to be graced with and he took everything in with utmost attention. He even often tried to piece together the ending. Seeing as if he could get it right.

Sometimes he did, and that was his favorite part. Watching your face light up even more realizing how he had listened to everything you had said, and even formed his own opinions on it.

He would always store the expression of your face into a small part of his brain so he could remember just how warm he felt during that moment when things got tough. That despite the duty, despite everything he still had you, and your wonderful stories.

You stopped, and he waited for you to continue patiently, wondering if you had lost your footing or something else had came to mind. He never minded straying course form the original topic. Sometimes you ended back at it, and sometimes not.

Your eyebrows came together as your eyes scanned across his face,"Valarr?" you questioned, causing him to hum in reply automatically You looked half surprised as if you had been expecting him not to listen. You clearly did not know you held his entire attention, his devotion, his heart even. "You look bored, my love."

His mouth opened immediately in shock or perhaps sorrow that you could ever think that. He pushed himself up from his lying position, his hand moving to cradle your cheek, "You could never bore me, ābrazȳrys."

"If you are tired you can rest. I know you have had a long day."

He shock his head in denial, "No. I wish for you to continuing

"Truly?" you asked, the doubt was evident seeping through all your features and it caused his gut to churn. Oh, how could you belie there was anything he rather be doing then sitting here, listening to you.

The Prince leaned forward instead pushing his mouth to yours gently, and he could feel you melting into him. His other hand moved to the side of your neck as he held you to him. Kissing away all the doubt that there was anything more important than you.

You were everything. And he would not trade this nightly routine for anything. No crown, no duty could ever stop him from enjoying the small unguarded moments of life with you.

He only pulled away when his lungs begged for air, and he more so did it for you then himself. His forehead rested against your own as he continued to cradle you as if you were glass, "Truly. I could listen to you talk all day," he assured you.

You hummed in reply and he smiled finally pulling back. He smirked pressing a kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger to seal his words once more, before settling back against the pillows.

Valarr smiled at you, "Now continue on with your story of Lady Lannister I am waging to see if I can predict the ending."

You laughed, and the sound hit him directly in his chest, a warmth spreading through him, as you continued on with your story. Your hands moving widely once more, your face lit up in the happiness that mirrored his own.

As he laid there watching you, taking in every word you said as if it was the most important thing in the world, because to him it was. Simply because it came from you.

[brutalizermp3]

♡ A/N: Imagined making smores with Counselor!Valarr and then the friends-to-lovers bullet hit me square in the chest. Aerion also makes a slight appearance, to be a little freak weirdo in the distance. Shout out my little freak weirdo <3 | Summer Camp AU masterlist

You’re sitting around the campfire, roasting marshmallows with some of the kids and he’s standing, crafting an example smore like he’s doing a magic trick. He tosses the graham crackers into the air (most of them land in the grass, but who’s counting), tosses marshmallows to the kids, for them to catch in their mouths. All that showmanship, just for a single, crumbling smore. 

“Ta da!” he cries. He brings it to you and has to essentially feed it to you, it’s so barely intact. The kids cry out in disgust, a chorus of manic giggles and 'Ewww's as Valarr’s fingers graze your lips, and he dusts cracker crumbs into your mouth. 

He spends the rest of the night going around the circle and helping the younger ones keep their smores from snapping in half, while you keep an eye on the ones who are happy to sit with their roasting marshmallows like old fishermen waiting on an old trout to take the bait. 

Later, he walks you back to your cabin. He can’t seem to look at you, busy fighting off this smile like he’s trying to steel himself before telling a joke. When you ask him what’s up he just shakes his head, but then a few quiet moments go by. Arms swinging, he steps closer, grazes his hand against yours, steps away and watches the space between you with an awe-struck expression. The cheeky little smile is back. 

“What,” you nudge him with your shoulder, “is so funny?” 

Still staring down at your hand, he finally lets the smile break free, wide and glinting in the dark. “You didn’t pull away.” 

“Well noticed,” you joke, giving him an approving nod. He doesn’t see it, too busy stretching his fingers out. It looks more like he’s being pulled by some invisible force towards you, than actually deciding to hold your hand. When your hands actually touch, he pulls away quickly, as if burned. 

“My hands are covered in marshmallow.” 

“So?” You look up at him indignantly and intertwine your fingers with his. Somehow, the smile this gets you is even broader and brighter than the last. 

He leans in and whispers, “Gross.” 

“No, you.” 

As he huffs out a laugh, you reach your cabin’s door. Neither of you let go, but neither can look the other in the eyes. It’s a while before either of you speaks, though you both take it in turns to open your mouths, glance upwards and then break out into shy, quiet giggles.

“I should probably get some sleep.” You nod to yourself haltingly, tracing a finger from your free hand over the bones in Valarr’s wrist. “Early start.”

“Early start everyday.” He watches your hand move slowly up his arm until you’re tracing his shoulder and making your way across his collarbone. The whole time, you keep holding hands, Valarr squeezing lightly when you get to his neck and draws a feather-light line upwards. His Adam’'s apple bobs beneath your finger as he takes a gulping breath in. He takes a step closer to you, lets go of your hand to brush his fingers over your face. 

Across camp, something screeches in the woods. You jump out of your skin and find yourself wrapped up in Valarr’s arms but just as quickly, you pull apart as if you’ve been caught naked. Out of the woods comes Aerion. Still with his regular, ambling gait–no hurrying around for the little prince–but a jumpiness that’s visible, even this far off. He keeps checking over his shoulder and the creaky, gas-station swiss army knife he carries around catches the night’s minimal light as he flicks it open and closed. 

“Creepy,” you whisper. Valarr clings to you a little tighter, remaining unamused. The moment is officially over. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Valarr starts, still frowning after Aerion as his cousin slips into their shared cabin. You nudge him and he still doesn’t budge. Maybe it’s the closeness, maybe it’s the irritation at being interrupted, but something makes you brave. You stand on tiptoe, lean in and throw your arms around his neck to give Valarr a peck on the cheek. 

“Night,” you whisper with a cheeky smile of your own. As you scurry through your cabin door, you peek over your shoulder to find him standing there, stunned, gawking at the empty space his arms are still enclosed around. 

taglist: @summer-nabi

[dearlizzies]

PAPA’S A PRINCESS!

you find your husband valarr with your daughter doing his makeup like a pretty princess ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃

The door to the royal chambers creaked softly as you pushed it open, the sound swallowed by the light spilling from the hearth. You had expected to find the room empty, or perhaps Valarr bent over his ledgers, frowning at some petition from a distant lord. What you found was far, far better.

"Papa, you must hold still” came a tiny, imperious voice, filled with a concentration that was wholly adorable. "You're going to ruin it!”

You stopped dead in the doorway, a smile already spreading across your face. There, in the center of the room, sat your husband, perched on a low, cushioned stool, his long legs stretched out before him, looking for all the world like a captured dragon. His head was tilted back, his eyes squeezed shut, and his lips were pressed into a thin line of exaggerated patience.

And on his lap, wielding a small, paint-smeared brush with the utmost gravity, was your daughter. Little Rhaenys, barely three years old, was dressed in a miniature gown of soft blue silk that was already sporting a fresh daub of crimson paint. Her dark hair, so like her father’s, was a wild cloud of curls around her cherubic face, a few stray strands sticking to her cheeks. Her tongue poked out from the corner of her mouth, a sure sign that she was engaged in a task of monumental importance.

"Rhaenys, ñuhys qēlītsos” you said softly, announcing your presence. You were utterly captivated by the scene before you and didn't want to startle her into ruining her masterpiece. "What are you doing?"

Her head snapped up, her violet eyes—mismatched—lighting up with pure joy. "Mama! Mama, look! I'm making Papa into a princess!"

Valarr’s eyes flew open, and he gave you a look of such comical, long-suffering despair that you had to clap a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh. A smear of bright, rouge-like red was daubed unceremoniously across his cheekbones, and what appeared to be kohl—your precious, expensive kohl from Lys—was smudged inelegantly around his eyes, making him look like a very handsome, very startled raccoon. His hair was a disaster, tufts of it pulled into tiny, lopsided braids that stuck out at odd angles, secured with ribbons of red and black.

"Princess” he repeated "I am a princess. A very pretty one, apparently." He shot you a desperate look. "Help me."

"Oh, I don't know” you said, gliding into the room, you crouched down beside them "You make a rather lovely princess, my love. Though I think the rouge is a little heavy on the left side."

Rhaenys nodded sagely, her little brow furrowed. "It's war paint, Mama. Papa is a warrior princess."

"Of course” you agreed , biting your lip to keep from laughing. "A Targaryen warrior princess. Visenya envies your braids from the dark lands of the afterlife”

Valarr groaned, a sound of pure suffering. "Gods, you are both conspiring against me." He tried to shift, but Rhaenys immediately placed a small, paint-covered hand on his chest.

"No, Papa! You have to sit! I'm not done!"

"But sweetling," he tried, his voice wheedling, "your mother is here. Surely she should be the princess. She's much prettier than I am."

Rhaenys considered this, tapping the paintbrush against her chin and leaving a small red spot. She turned her head to look at you, her gaze critical.

"Hmm," she said, the sound so much like a miniature maester that you nearly laughed again. "Mama's hair is too neat. Princess hair has to be messy. And she doesn't have a crown."

"Ah, but I do” you said, winking at Valarr. You reached up and pulled out the ornate silver-and-ruby pin that held your braids in place. "See? A crown for a princess."

Rhaenys shook her head with such violent certainty that her curls bounced. "No, that's not a crown. There’s a better one." She gestured to the large, heavy circlet of Valyrian steel and rubies that sat abandoned on a small table nearby.

Your eyebrows shot up. "You want to put that on your Papa's head?"

"Papa needs a proper crown” she declared. "A princess crown." She scrambled off his lap and toddled over to the table. Valarr and you shared a look of pure parental panic as she strained on her tiptoes to reach it. The crown was heavier than she was, and you were already moving to intercept her when she grabbed it, grunting with effort.

"Rhaenys, careful, darling” he said.

"Papa, lower your head!”

Valarr, who would command armies and face down enemies without flinching, immediately obeyed his three-year-old daughter. He leaned his head forward, and with a solemn reverence that was hilarious, Rhaenys placed the crown upon his head. It was, of course, far too big. It slipped down over his brow, covering his eyes and coming to rest on the bridge of his nose.

"There” she declared, her voice full of pride. "Now Papa’s a beautiful princess."

Valarr pushed the crown up with a finger, peering out from beneath it. He looked at you, "A princess” he repeated. "Am i a pretty princess, my love?"

You couldn't hold it in any longer. A laugh bubbled up from your chest, uncontrollable. Valarr’s lips twitched, and then he was laughing too. Rhaenys, hearing you, began to giggle.

"Let me see” you said, wiping tears of mirth from your eyes. "The complete picture." You stepped back to take them in. There was your husband, the Prince of Dragonstone, with his dark eyes, his red cheeks, his lopsided braids, and the crown perched on his head.

"Papa is the best princess” Rhaenys announced, throwing her arms around his neck. Valarr caught her, holding her close, careful not to transfer too much paint to her gown. He pressed a kiss to her temple, leaving a faint red smudge on her skin. The single action made you want to give him 10 more children.

"I am the luckiest princess in all of Westeros."

You walked over to them, your own eyes stinging. You knelt down, wrapping your arms around them both, breathing in the scent of your family.

"And I” you whispered, "am the luckiest lady in the world, to have such a beautiful princess for a husband and the bravest little dragon for a daughter."

Valarr kissed your hair softly, looking at you through those raccoon eyes.

"Just wait until the small council sees me”

art by @/machy-march

[ange1archive]

modern!valarr headcanons

modern!valarr who’s born into generational wealth, the kind that doesn’t flex or tells everyone the price of everything. he just casually mentions “the sumer estate” like everyone has one.

modern!valarr who’s rumored to get everything he wants because of his family name, but is actually just tired of people wanting things from him.

modern!valarr who studies law at university and actually makes an effort because he want to prove that he is more than the nepo son who gets handed over the law firm of his father without doing anything.

modern!valarr who’s soft with animals, especially horses and his golden retriever dog.

modern!valarr who’s been riding horses since he could walk, treats stables like therapy, and knows every horse by name.

modern!valarr who’s most at home at the local polo club.

modern!valarr who’s always in crisp ralph lauren shirts, cable-knit sweaters over his shoulders, and loafers.

modern!valarr who’s a regular on the tennis courts, playing with a classic wooden racket just for the tradition of it, and never losing his cool even when the match gets intense.

modern!valarr who teaches you tennis and golf, pretending to correct your form just so he can stand closer.

“again,” he murmurs, breath warm near your ear. “you’re doing beautifully.”

modern!valarr who… never lets you pay. ever. you’ll reach for your card and he’ll gently intercept your wrist, voice calm.

“please let me pay, darling.”

modern!valarr who’s known for his ‘down-to-earth’ lifestyle (there is nothing down-to-earth about it); he’d rather take you on a private picnic in a secluded meadow than to the loudest club in the city, preferring quality conversation over public spectacle.

modern!valarr who’s a bit of a romantic traditionalist, often leaving handwritten notes on your bedside table for you to find, signed with his full name and a heart next to it.

‘thinking of you. see you tonight. — valarr t.♡’

modern!valarr who’s pulls out your chairs, opening doors, introducing you properly like you’re precious to him.

modern!valarr who’s never raises his voice, but when he goes quiet, everyone listens.

modern!valarr who’s disciplined to a fault. early mornings, tennis practice, riding lessons, then work or classes.

modern!valarr who‘s not much into pda. he just holds your hand or leaves his hand on your back.

modern!valarr who buys you expensive flowers, perfumes, clothes. he just gives you his black card no matter the price.

modern!valarr who’s raised to marry “well” but falls for you in a way that messes up all those expectations.

modern!valarr who’s lowkey protective of you– holding the door, guiding you through a crowd with a hand on the small of your back, and remembering exactly how you take your coffee. if someone should insult you he gets very mad.

modern!valarr who’s surprisingly jealous, he just doesn’t show it but his jaw is tight and his eyes follow whoever’s talking to you.

modern!valarr who definitely drives some vintage car that he got gifted from his grandfather for his 8teenth birthday.

[rhaenyras-crown]

glamorous — targaryen!reader

✷ synopsis: The eldest daughter of Maekar Targaryen is renowned as the most dazzling jewel of Westeros, at the Tourney of Ashford her behavior scandalizes and entertains the entire Reach.

✷ word count: 7.1k

✷ warnings: none, events of akotsk and the usual targcest, the reader is awfully spoiled

✷ note: this is literally just modern party girl gets out of hand in a nutshell lol, there is lowkey tension with everyone so it’s not exactly a traditional x reader fic, though I had so much fun writing it and exploring the different dynamics!! hopefully you’ll enjoy it as much as i did

The tournament at Ashford had been spoken of as if it were some grand affair. Banners snapping in the Reach wind, knights scurrying about hoping for a piece of glory, songs to be written and names to be remembered.

You thought it mud. Glorious and perfumed mud.

If there was one thing the Reach did well, it was flowers. Unfortunately, the field outside Ashford Castle seemed to have been curated by pigs instead of gardeners.

Trampled grass covered churned earth. The unbearable scent of horse and sweat was thick in the air. You wrinkled your nose the moment your white stallion crossed the outer gate.

You had not wished to attend. But princesses did not always go where they wished, only most of the time.

And you were very accustomed to most of the time. Too accustomed your father would argue.

You rode just behind your father, Maekar, your uncle Baelor and your cousins, your posture languid but impeccable.

Your gown was travel-cut but tailored in black velvet, slashed at the sleeves to reveal crimson silk beneath, a quiet nod to House Targaryen without screaming it like a tourney banner. Silver stars were embroidered to your cloak. Rings adorned nearly every finger. You liked how the sunlight gleamed and reflected off the jewels.

Your stallion — milk-white, braided with thin red ribbons stepped into the yard like a creature descending from myth. Against Ashford’s dull stone and brown banners, you might as well have been a nymph come to save the dreariness of this earth.

You dismounted with slow grace, ignoring the way stable boys suddenly found their boots fascinating. Some unabashedly stared while others suddenly became preoccupied with the most mundane tasks.

One of them dared glance up. The boys were not nearly as pretty as the courtiers from Dorne, you noted. He flushed scarlet when your violet eyes caught his.

Your lips quirked up in amusement. Let him look. They always did.

“Princess.” A familiar voice greeted.

You turned your head. Ser Donnel of Duskendale stood at attention in white armor that looked painfully out of place in all the grime. Even the Kingsguard could not make Ashford gleam.

“Ser,” you replied sweetly, tugging off your riding gloves finger by finger. “You look terribly clean. It must be exhausting keeping to remain…” you pretended to ponder for the right word. “Proper, in all this shit and dirt.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Her Grace’s daughter is in fine spirits, I see.”

“My spirits are always fine,” you retorted. “It is my surroundings that suffer.”

He fell into step beside you as servants hurried to open the heavy wooden doors. “I trust the journey was not too unpleasant?”

You cast one last glance over your shoulder at your stallion. The stable boy was still staring. You held his gaze until he nearly dropped the reins.

“The only pleasant part,” you said airily, “was seeing the gates I shall be leaving through.”

Ser Donnel gave a quiet huff of laughter. “The road did not break you, then.”

“It takes more than a long ride and dull company to break me, Ser.” You assured him with a chagrin smile.

Inside, the hall was all dark timber and carved beams. Impressive perhaps for a Reach lord. But you had grown up among dragon skulls and red stone towers.

Compared to the Red Keep or Summerhall, this felt like a well decorated barn at best.

No place for a king. Certainly no place for you.

Your father and uncle were already seated at Lord Ashford’s long table. Tension sat heavier than the tapestries behind them.

You did not curtsy nor greet any of them. You strode into the room like it was your given birthright to be there.

You headed directly toward the wine.

“Still no sign of my dear brothers?” you asked casually as a servant filled your chalice nearly to the brim.

Baelor Targaryen cleared his throat. “Niece.” His eyes were silently scolding you for not attempting to behave formidably at the very least.

You lifted the cup to your lips without looking at him.

Maekar exhaled slowly, as if summoning what little patience the Seven had granted him at birth.

“I told you it was a poor idea,” you continued, inspecting the wine’s color. Not dornish, that was for certain. “Leaving Aegon with Daeron? Truly, Father, that borders on comedy.”

Lord Ashford shifted uncomfortably in his own hall.

Baelor attempted to remain diplomatic and save some dignity. “We have reason to believe they were delayed by—”

“By taverns,” you cut in. Eyes inspecting the hall, silently judging. “Or by some pretty young wench who caught Daeron’s eye. Or by deciding he required inspiration in the form of ale.”

Maekar’s jaw tightened. “That will be enough.” His eyes were piercing through you, silently commanding you to shut your mouth.

“Will it?” you tilted your head, violet eyes bright with something dangerously close to amusement. “Because if we’ve misplaced two princes of the realm, I fear ‘enough’ sailed away some leagues ago.”

A sharp silence followed. Everyone was clearly uncomfortable and wasn’t sure how to continue.

Baelor pressed his fingers to the table, steadying himself. “Your concern for your brothers is touching.” His voice was laced with a sarcasm you weren’t even sure he was capable of possessing.

“Oh, I am not concerned,” you replied lightly. “Aegon will land on his feet. Hopefully.” You added after a short pause. “He always does. It is the rest of us who must endure the embarrassment. As usual.” You took a long swig of the wine.

“Seven bloody hells what is this? Horse piss?” Your brows furrowed at the taste and your expression contorted into one of absolute disgust.

Maekar leaned back in his chair, studying you as it trying to place his finger on what had gone wrong.

“You delight in provocation.” He grumbled.

“I delight in accuracy father.” You corrected him.

Lord Ashford, desperately attempting to kill the awkwardness, cleared his throat. “Mayhaps the princess would enjoy the company of my daughter, Gwyn? She is a formidable young lady–“

“I seriously doubt it.” Your voice immediately rang out.

The bluntness left him unresponsive and nervous.

Ashford blinked.

Baelor shut his eyes briefly, though you could see he was holding back a smile.

Maekar barked out a short, incredulous laugh. Not amused but resigned.

“I apologize on behalf of the princess,” Baelor recovered quickly. “The road has—”

“The road has improved me,” you interrupted. “I am far more agreeable than I was this morning.”

Maekar’s stare sharpened. “You test me more and more each day girl.”

You sipped your wine.

“You raised me to be formidable.”

Baelor’s gaze flicked between you both, dragonfire meeting dragonfire. “This tourney is not a stage for family discord.”

His voice was more commanding now, as if willing both of you to end this petty discussion.

“No?” you asked. “That is disappointing. It would be the most interesting thing here.”

Maekar stood abruptly. The scrape of his chair echoed. “You will remember where you stand.”

“In a drafty hall in the Reach?” you replied. “Yes. Painfully.”

A beat. Then unexpectedly he stepped closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear.

“You will mind your tongue,” he said quietly.

You met his eyes without flinching.

“Will I?.”

For a moment, something almost like defeat flickered in his expression — quickly smothered.

“You will behave,” he ordered.

You smiled, all teeth and silk.

“I always do. In my own fashion.”

Without waiting for dismissal, you turned on your heel, wine in hand.

Behind you, Baelor muttered something about patience and the foolishness of youth.

Ahead of you, the doors to the yard stood open. Sunlight spilled in, catching in your pale hair. Outside, banners snapped. Knights shouted. Somewhere a lute attempted cheer.

You descended the steps into the chaos like it belonged to you. Mud clung to hems. Men shouted for glory. Gold changed hands.

You breathed it all in.

Let the knights break bones for crowns of flowers. Let lords posture.

Let your brothers vanish and reappear in dramatic fashion.

You leaned against a post, surveying the field as if it were a marketplace and you its most expensive jewel.

A passing squire nearly tripped over his own boots staring.

You smirked. Ashford might be dirt and timber. But wherever you stood?

That was court.

And you had never, not once in your life, been told no.

The first eve of jousting arrived briefly. It was wrapped in both torchlight and anticipation.

The air still stale and reeking of peasants caught a new scent as evening descended. The whiff of roasted meats, pride and trampled grass was palatable.

Somewhere within the castle chambers, you were being laced into a gown that cost more than a small holdfast.

“Higher,” you instructed lazily, arms lifted as your two handmaidens fastened the final hooks. “If I am to scandalize the Reach, I would prefer to do it properly.”

The girls hid their smiles, clearly entertained by your scandalous behavior.

Your hair had been braided into a crown atop your head intricate yet deliberate — leaving the rest to fall in a pale cascade down your back.

A thin veil hung from a jeweled headpiece, though you had pushed it back so it framed you rather than concealed you.

You did not hide, not ever.

The gown was violet silk, deep and luminous, cut daringly low at the neckline and clinging to your figure in a way that whispered what the realm had begun to notice: the princess was no longer a child.

At least not in body.

The fabric caught torchlight like spilled wine. Jewels glimmered at your throat and wrists. When you moved, the dress flowed like smoke.

You surveyed yourself in the polished mirror. A crown princess, from head to toe.

“Perfect,” you decided.

Outside, the first tilt had already begun.

In the royal box, your father sat rigid beside your uncle.

“Where the fuck is she?” Maekar muttered under his breath, eyes scanning the stairs, as if willing you to appear at any moment.

With two sons already missing he did not need you to cause any additional troubles.

Baelor kept his composure, though a flicker of doubt passed through him. “Do not fret brother, I am certain she will be arriving shortly.”

The tilt thundered below —two knights collided in a splintering crash. The crowd roared.

Still no silver hair.

Maekar exhaled through his nose. “I will not be mocked by my own daughter in front of half the Reach.”

“You are mocked by worse men in worse halls,” Baelor replied mildly.

Aerion lounged nearby, long fingers drumming against the arm of his chair. The empty seat beside him — yours, stood like a deliberate insult.

He smirked faintly. “Perhaps she has found something more entertaining than watching men fall off horses.”

Maekar gave him one sharp look and it was enough to make the boy shut his mouth.

Another tilt. Another explosion of wood. A knight tumbled hard into the dust.

The crowd surged. And then a ripple came to life.

A murmur, soft at first, then swelling like a tide.

Heads turned and soft gasps were heard.

Silver caught flame-light.

You appeared at the entrance to the royal box as though you had been conjured by applause. The torches gilded your hair, your gown, the jewels at your brow. For a heartbeat, even the lists seemed dimmer.

The Reach ladies blinked, shrunken in amazement.

You walked through them as though you were a goddess among commoners, and perhaps in some way you were.

“Apologies,” you said brightly, not at all apologetic. “Preparation is terribly slow when one has only two handmaidens at hand. I’m afraid the capital spoils a girl.”

A few chuckles rang out at your words while others only murmured of your insolence.

Maekar’s eyes burned.

You slumped into your seat beside Aerion — utterly ungraceful — and crossed one leg over the other, silk cascading scandalously.

Aerion leaned closer. “You’re late.”

“A princess is never late. She is always precisely on time.” you corrected.“There is a difference.”

He huffed a laugh despite himself.

“You enjoy this sister,” he murmured, gaze drifting over the crowd staring openly now.

“Obviously.” You rolled your eyes.

Below, another pair of knights thundered forward. One lance shattered against a shield, splinters flying like kindling. The other struck true — the impact cracked loud as bone and the unhorsed knight hit the dirt to wild cheers.

You leaned forward, chin in hand. “That one will limp for a moon’s turn.”

“You speak as if you’ve done it yourself,” Aerion drawled.

“I would,” you said lightly. “If they would let me.”

He glanced sideways at you. “You would not last a tilt.” He scoffed.

You smiled sweetly. “Would you?”

Before he could retort, a new name was announced.

“Valarr Targaryen! Son of Prince Baelor Targaryen!”

Valarr rode into the lists in dark armor chased with silver. The three headed dragon carved into his armor a reminder of the nobility and power of your house.

Firelight traced the edges of his helm. He looked every inch the prince, composed, formidable and maddeningly honorable.

The crowd quieted with reverence. You felt Aerion’s posture stiffen beside you.

Valarr saluted the royal box.

Then, instead of lowering his lance toward his opponent, he turned his horse slightly.

“I would ask for the princess’s favor.” His voice rang out.

A murmur swept through the stands like wind over tall grass. You stood slowly.

The veil shimmered behind you.

Aerion’s jaw tightened. “The audacity. He parades you like some kind of banner.”

“Oh hush,” you whispered. “You parade yourself far worse.” He flinched at your words.

Baelor watched with careful intensity.

Maekar looked as though he might strangle someone.

You untied a silk handkerchief from your wrist — pale lavender edged in silver thread and leaned over the railing just enough to be seen, but not enough to be scolded.

“Now you have no choice but to win, cousin,” you said softly, tossing it down. It fluttered like a fallen petal before landing neatly against his gauntlet.

“And I do not give my favor to just any knight who asks.”

Your eyes gleamed.

Valarr caught the silk, bowed his helm in silent acknowledgment, and secured it against his arm.

Aerion muttered, “You encourage him.”

“I encourage everyone,” you replied lazily. “Some simply rise to meet it.”

The herald signaled. Lances lowered and the horses charged.

The thunder of hooves shook the wood beneath your feet. The first clash exploded in a rain of splinters, Valarr’s lance striking square against his opponent’s shield. The impact was vicious. The opposing knight wavered, clung, then fell heavily into the dirt.

The crowd erupted.

You clapped once, sharp and delighted. “Oh that was pretty.”

Valarr wheeled his horse smoothly, barely winded.

Aerion leaned back, voice edged. “His father will not allow him to face a true challenger.”

“Then perhaps,” you murmured, eyes following Valarr’s victory circle, “he should.”

Aerion’s gaze snapped to you. “You wish him harmed?”

“I wish him tested.”

The next tilt was fiercer. The opposing knight was older and heavier. He struck Valarr’s shield with bone-jarring force. For a heartbeat, it seemed the prince might unseat.

Your fingers tightened on your seat.

Valarr recovered, adjusted, charged again.

The second strike shattered his lance entirely — the wood exploding against the man’s helm. The knight toppled backward in a spectacular fall.

You laughed bright and ringing.

“See?” you said, settling back into your seat. “Worth the wait.”

Maekar finally spoke, low and dangerous. “You will cease behaving like a tavern girl.”

You turned your head slowly.

“Please father, a tavern girl could never afford this gown.”

Baelor exhaled in quiet resignation.

Aerion smirked openly now, entertained despite himself. “You are impossible.”

“And yet,” you replied sweetly, watching Valarr lift your favor toward the stands, “utterly indispensable.”

Below, the crowd chanted Valarr’s name.

Above, you reclined like a jeweled cat, satisfied.

Ashford might be mud and sweat and provincial pride. But tonight? It glittered like the jewel of Westeros, because of you obviously.

The festivities did not die with the last tilt. If anything the noise and excitement only grew, reaching an excitement you had not deemed it capable of.

The lists emptied of armored men and filled instead with musicians, merchants, knights half-drunk on glory, and ladies half-drunk on attention. Torches multiplied as the music swelled.

Laughter sharpened into something far more reckless and free.

The royal box quickly emptied as you set back towards the castle with the rest of the ladies and lords.

Your father’s hand closed firmly around yours the moment the royal party made it into the dim halls of ashford castle.

Maekar Targaryen did not look at you as he guided you through the corridors. His jaw was carved from stone.

“If you ever pull something like that again, girl— I swear by the gods.”

He was quite wound up, you decided it was time to play your favorite trick.

You widened your eyes instantly. It was like a carefully refined art by now.

The slight tremble and purse in your lower lip. The shimmer gathering along your lashes. The careful hitch in your breath.

“I only wanted to look wonderful,” you whispered, eyes cast down in mock shame. “And make you proud, Father.”

Your voice cracked at just the right syllable.

His grip slightly loosened. Of course it did.

Maekar exhaled, the fury bleeding from him like wine from a cracked goblet. “You know very well none of these Reach ladies— if we can call them that— hold a candle to you.”

You leaned into his hand as he brushed a strand of hair from your cheek.

Hook. Line. How easy it was. You almost laughed at the thought.

You had watched your mother do it a hundred times — the softened tone, the gentle touch, the illusion of vulnerability she presented.

Men like your father believed themselves immovable. They were in truth clay if one only knew how to mould them.

“I think I shall retire,” you murmured sweetly. “The day has exhausted me.”

He nodded, already half-distracted by your sweet pout.

You curtsied just enough to be convincing and set off towards your temporary chamber.

And then you waited.

Your chambers were small by your standards, compared to the vast bedroom in the red keep. It was richly appointed for Ashford though.

The moment the door shut, your expression shifted entirely. The false innocence and exhaustion gone from your gaze

Exhausted? Please you were only getting started.

You stripped from violet silk and jewels with swift efficiency. Removing the clothes was awfully simpler than putting them on.

You traded the purple gown for a simple black dress embroidered with faint dragons and scattered stars — a quiet tribute to your mother’s house.

A servant had left behind a coarse brown cloak at your request. You seized it.

A princess by daylight. A rumor by night.

It was insultingly easy to slip past guards once the royal party believed you asleep. Your jewels gone, your hair braided simply and hidden beneath your hood, you were suddenly unremarkable.

Just another girl chasing freedom.

The air outside bit cooler now, thick with ale and smoke. Music spilled from tents in chaotic waves. Smallfolk danced barefoot in churned mud. Knights had shed armor for loosened tunics. Laughter rose raw and unpolished.

Your heart thudded with something dangerously close to joy.

Perhaps Ashford was not entirely dreadful. You could learn to enjoy this chaos.

You drifted through the edges first, observing. A girl with flour on her cheek spun wildly with a man twice her size. Two squires argued over dice. A septon pretended not to watch the dancing.

Freedom. No scheming. No titles. No pretending.

Just heat and movement and breath.

A tent ahead gleamed brighter than the rest — painted yellow, marked with the familiar black stag. House Baratheon.

You grinned beneath your hood. A terrible idea already brewing in your mind.

Why not? You slipped inside and were immediately swallowed whole. By the noise and by the people.

Hands seized yours. Laughter erupted. Someone shoved a cup into your palm. Music thundered through the canvas walls as bodies spun in chaotic circles.

You barely had time to breathe before you were pulled into a dance — first by a woman with wind-tangled curls, then by a broad-shouldered man, then into a spinning chain of strangers. You laughed genuinely, wildly — the sound unrestrained and bright. You finally felt free.

Your cloak vanished somewhere in the chaos. No one seemed to care about your silver hair.

It was incredibly refreshing, simply existing without any duty and obligation.

Unfortunately it did not last long.

At first the dancing grew faster. Hotter anad closer. Sweat clung to your temples, wine coursed through your veins, candle wax filled your senses.

Someone lifted you briefly in a spinning motion and set you down again.

And then the whispers began, like always.

“Aye it’s prince Maekar’s daughter..”

“Gods be good it really is her!”

“She is even more beautiful in the flesh.”

You paid them no mind.

The music faltered only slightly before surging louder, as though daring scandal.

Across the tent stood the so-called Laughing Storm himself.

Lyonel Baratheon had discarded some absurd antlered headpiece and now watched you with open amusement.

He was not the broadest man present, nor the tallest but he carried himself like a blade.

He was lean, balanced, dangerous in wit rather than bulk.

“My princess,” he greeted, stepping closer, bowing with exaggerated flourish.

“Lord Baratheon,” you replied, punctuated by a small hiccup. “Your tent is… lively.”

“It improves by the moment.”

He was clearly not disturbed by your presence and did not feel the need to put up a false act.

You liked him immediately. He was not pretending to be someone else.

“Oh, gods, to hell with all of that,” you declared suddenly, grabbing both his hands. “Let’s dance.”

He laughed — a rich, delighted sound and allowed himself to be dragged into the center. It was honest and carefree.

He moved beautifully. Fluid. Confident. Unbothered by watching eyes. You spun together, boots sliding in packed dirt, the musicians playing faster to match your energy.

The world blurred into torchlight and breath and rhythm.

At one point you found yourselves inches apart, laughter dissolving into something quieter. His breath was warm with wine. Yours matched.

For a fleeting heartbeat, the world narrowed dangerously. Only you and the lord of the Stormlands.

But you were not foolish. Only reckless.

You pulled away first, spinning again, dissolving tension into movement as he was dragged away to the other side of the tent.

The music crashed into a triumphant finish. And the world tilted.

Ale. Wine. More ale. You had lost count.

At one point you stumbled outside the tent, cool night air hitting you like a slap.

And promptly retched.

A white-gloved hand caught your shoulder before you could crumple into the mud.

“Alright, Princess,” came the weary but relieved voice of Ser Donnel of Duskendale. “I think you’ve had quite enough.”

You blinked up at him, vision swimming. “Ser Donnel,” you slurred faintly. “You look terribly clean.” You did not lose your sense of humor even when you were drunk beyond reason.

He did not smile this time.

Two additional guards appeared behind him.

“Did my father send you?,” it was more accusation than question.

“No,” Ser Donnel replied carefully, as if weighing if he should tell the truth or not. “Your uncle did.”

Baelor.

That stung more than you expected.

They wrapped a new cloak around your shoulders and guided — half carried in all honesty as it was simpler than getting you to walk, through the torchlit paths.

Laughter followed in your wake, along with whispers that would undoubtedly grow threefold by morning.

By the time you reached the castle gates, your head throbbed viciously.

Instead of being taken to your own chambers or your father’s you wee taken to the Hand’s temporary residence.

Inside, waiting beneath dim hall light, stood Baelor Targaryen.

His expression was stoic and indecipherable as usual.

It irritated you awfully.

The guards released you.

Baelor dismissed them with a quiet nod before standing up. The corridor fell silent.

You straightened as best you could, steadying yourself on a nearby bookshelf.

Your chin lifted in defiance.

He studied you for a long moment — the smudged kohl beneath your eyes, the loosened braid, the lingering scent of ale.

“Your father would be out of his mind if he knew what you’ve done, where you’ve been,” he said at last.

“I doubt that,” you muttered. “Daeron does much worse on the daily.”

“You are not some broodmare to vanish into tents at will.” His voice was awfully stern now.

You folded your arms. “I vanished quite successfully.”

“That is not the point.”

His voice did not rise despite everything. It never did.

“You wee in Lord Baratheon’s tent yes?”

“Yes,” you said. “I noticed the stag.”

“You are a princess of the realm.”

“Oh seven hells I only danced I did not commit a crime against the realm!.”

“You risked scandal.” His voice rose above your own.

You lifted your chin higher. “Scandal requires regret.”

Silence settled between you.

“If you were my daughter I would-“ he began but you cut him off.

“Yet I am not your daughter am I, uncle?” Your eyes searched his own and you discovered a dangerous gleam in them.

You could tell he was awfully holding himself back from acting improperly or saying something unbecoming.

“No, you are not.” Alas he quietly settled for that.

Baelor stepped closer, shifting his tone now. “You are clever. Too clever. But the realm does not forgive women the way it forgives men.”

There it was. Not fury but fear, like warning a child. He was daunting you.

You swallowed just slightly.

“I was not harmed,” you said, quieter now.

“I know,” he replied. “Because I ensured you were not.”

“You sent the guards.”

“Yes.”

Not Father. Baelor. You felt you ought to thank him but your pride stopped you from doing so.

“I will not have you dragged through mud by whispers,” he continued. “You may play at being untouchable. But you are not.”

For once, you had no sharp reply.

Your head ached. The night’s thrill was dimming into consequence.

Baelor sighed softly.

“You will remain within the castle tomorrow evening.”

You opened your mouth to protest.

He merely raised a brow.

You closed your lips and fell silent.

“For tonight,” he added more gently, “go to bed before you disgrace yourself further.”

You hesitated, then gave him an exaggerated curtsy wobbling only slightly.

“As you command, Uncle.”

As you turned away, he spoke once more.

“You shine brightly enough without setting fires.”

You paused just briefly, not turning around before disappearing down the corridor.

Behind closed doors, you leaned against the wood, exhaling.

Your head spun. Your heart still raced.

And despite the reprimand — despite the guards and the whispers and Baelor’s measured disappointment —

You smiled.

Ashford would never forget this tourney. And neither would you.

Your head felt as though a smith had set an anvil between your eyes and taken a hammer to it.

Light was your enemy and sound a betrayal. Even the soft rustle of linen made you wince.

For a long while you lay perfectly still beneath the covers, staring at the canopy above your bed in your chamber at Ashford Castle, contemplating the radical notion of obedience.

Baelor had forbidden you from leaving the castle walls. Strictly and finally.

His voice from the night before replayed in your skull far more painfully than the wine.

You shine brightly enough without setting fires.

A burning shame lingered in your chest — not because of the dancing, nor the drinking, nor even the retching in the grass like some dockside girl.

But because of the disappointment in Baelor Targaryen’s eyes.

That had stung more than any slap ever could.

You groaned and pulled a pillow over your face. Rules were intolerable but shame was worse.

After several dramatic sighs and one ill-advised attempt to sit up too quickly (which nearly sent you back into the pillow), you relented. If you were to suffer, you would at least do so in silk.

Your handmaidens dressed you in something “simpler,” though simple for you meant deep crimson silk worked with gold thread dragons along the sleeves.

No scandalous slit this time. No daring neckline. The bodice was modest enough to satisfy your father’s approval.

You hated that it did.

“I look like repentance,” you muttered.

“You look radiant, Princess,” one maid offered cheerfully.

“Radiant and restrained,” you corrected with a scowl.

Still you were not about to miss Aerion’s tilt.

Your brother competing while you languished in bed? Unthinkable.

You stepped into the hall with deliberate composure. Servants scattered like startled birds, murmuring greetings. The air smelled faintly of roasted meat and morning ale.

Inside the main hall you found your father and Aerion mid-argument.

Maekar stood as rigid as always, hands braced against the table.

Aerion looked dangerously optimistic.

“Good morrow,” you chimed brightly, sliding into the seat to your father’s left.

Aerion’s brow furrowed. “You’re sitting in Baelor’s chair.” He pointed out.

You blinked innocently. “Am I? I don’t see him anywhere.”

You reached for Aerion’s chalice without hesitation and took a slow sip.

Never too early to start with the refreshments.

“Bitch,” Aerion muttered.

“Arsehole,” you replied sweetly.

Maekar exhaled sharply. “Will you two cease behaving like gutter children, or must I send you both back to wetnurses?”

“Oh, I am certain Aerion would appreciate that,” you said, glancing at your brother. “He might finally learn what a woman’s—”

“A word more and I will drag you from that chair,” Aerion hissed, half-rising.

Your father’s glare froze him mid-motion.

“Enough,” Maekar growled. “Your brothers are missing. The realm watches us. And you two snap like mongrels over scraps. Need I remind you that you are royal blood? Blood of the dragon?”

You tore a piece of bread in half calmly.

“Father,” you said mildly, “we are far more Dornish than Valyrian at this point.”

The silence that followed was immediate and catastrophic. You definitely struck a nerve with both.

Maekar stood. The movement alone drew eyes from nearby tables.

“Enough,” he said again, quieter this time, which was always worse.

You chewed your bread thoughtfully as though nothing at all had happened.

Aerion scoffed loudly and pushed back from the table. “You mock what you do not understand. You are not worthy of carrying the Targaryen name.”

“I understand perfectly,” you replied. “You wish to set something on fire. Ideally yourself.”

He stormed away, insulted beyond measure muttering something about you behaving like a whore.

You watched him go, almost pleased.

Sometimes you wondered how your father managed to love children such as you — volatile, unruly, sharp-edged.

His love was a strange, stubborn thing. You did not quite trust it.

Alas the afternoon arrived bright and unforgiving.

This time you were not late.

The royal box filled quickly. The crowds were thicker today, word of yesterday’s scandals had only fed the excitement.

Baelor had returned. He acknowledged you only with the faintest nod before turning his attention to the lists.

You felt it like a deliberate chill. A deliberate ignorance.

Below, Aerion rode out.

He had been droning on about his helm for days on end while you rode to the tournament. Something about its wings, its shape, its “true dragon form.” How it would make everyone fear and worship him.

Now, seeing it in full light, you nearly laughed.

Black armor gleamed ominously, etched with sharp red flames. The helm was monstrous — elongated, snarling, more beast than man.

He looked terrifying. If one did not know him.

You leaned forward slightly, chin resting on your gloved hand.

“He does cut a figure,” someone murmured behind you.

“He cuts something,” you replied under your breath.

The herald called the tilt. Lances lowered and the charge began.

From the very first pass, it was clear Aerion did not intend to play fair.

His lance dipped lower than it should have. Aimed not for shield but for the opposing horse.

A collective intake of breath rippled through the stands.

Baelor leaned forward sharply, displeasure etched plainly across his face.

Your own expression did not shift. Typical Aerion.

The impact rang out — brutal, splintering. The opposing knight barely maintained control of his mount, fury flashing across his visor.

You felt no outrage. Only a dull sort of inevitability.

Aerion circled back, triumphant, basking in the adrenaline. The smallfolk did not cheer him on.

“Disgraceful,” Baelor muttered quietly.

“Effective,” you murmured back.

He glanced at you, measuring.

“You would condone that?”

You shrugged faintly. “I would expect it.”

The second pass came faster, harder. The other knight adjusted, fury fueling him. Their lances struck near simultaneously.

Aerion wobbled for a moment

For one suspended heartbeat, you almost hoped he would be unhorsed.

He recovered. Of course he did.

He never suffered in proportion to his behavior.

He unhorsed the man on the third pass, though not cleanly. The knight hit the dirt hard, his horse rearing dangerously.

The crowd’s cheers were fractured this time, more outrage than applause.

Aerion raised his lance high, black armor glinting darkly in the sun.

You leaned back slowly. Part of you had hoped he would fall.

Not grievously. Just enough to humble him. Just enough to knock some madness loose.

You stole a glance at your father.

Maekar’s gaze burned with pride, fierce and possessive. Whatever Aerion lacked in honor, he possessed in spectacle.

You did not understand it.

How he found such deep reservoirs of love for sons who teetered on the edge of cruelty. For daughters who mocked bloodlines and broke each and every rule.

Perhaps that was what being a dragon meant. Loving fire even when it burned you.

Below, Aerion wheeled his horse toward the royal box, lifting his helm just enough for you to see the gleam in his eyes.

He expected applause or your favor. You merely raised your eyebrows at him and lifted your chalice.

A slow, deliberate sip.

He was probably muttering obscenities under his helm.

A peasant threw something towards Aerion and it collided with his helm, as the smallfolk raged on at his dishonorable joust.

You decided you had grown tired of this circus.

Yet somewhere beneath your composed exterior, a restless, reckless spark still smoldered.

Grounded or not you were not made for quiet.

By the time dusk bled violet into the sky, Aerion had convinced you — or rather maneuvered you — into agreeing to venture beyond the castle walls once more.

“There’s a play,” he had said with thinly veiled interest. “A puppet show. Crude nonsense, but amusing.”

You had narrowed your eyes at him. “Since when do you enjoy crude nonsense?”

He had smiled in that way of his sharp and private. “Since it involves dragons.”

Your father been reluctant in letting you go. The memory of the previous night still hovered heavily in the air.

“You will not make a spectacle of yourself again,” he had commanded.

You tilted your head. “I make spectacles better than anyone in the realm father .”

Maekar’s stare hardened as if daring you.

You relented — slightly. “Nothing scandalous will occur.”

It was not quite a promise. And you were not quite certain you meant it. But it was worth a try.

So now you walked once more into the torchlit chaos beyond Ashford Castle but this time the thrill was muted.

Guards flanked you. White cloaks gleamed. Aerion’s arm was laced tightly through yours.

Not out of affection but possession.

You attempted to loosen his grip subtly. His fingers tightened.

“Behave,” he murmured under his breath. “The smallfolk adore unity.”

“You are strangling me,” you replied sweetly, attempting to mask your grimace of pain.

“Endure it.”

The laughter and music that had once felt intoxicating now felt staged. Eyes followed you openly. Whispers trailed behind.

The princess. The dragon’s daughter.

You felt less like a girl and more like a prize mare being paraded through market.

Still, when you reached the large tent where the puppeteers performed, curiosity flickered anew.

Inside, it was warmer. Packed tight with smallfolk, children perched on barrels, women with flour-dusted hands, men in worn tunics smelling of ale and smoke. Their excitement was honest.

You found yourself almost smiling at the harmlessness.

The puppet stage was painted in brilliant colors — reds and golds and blues. A tall girl, striking and confident, played the part of a knight. Even beneath rough costume, she moved with surprising grace.

You forgot Aerion beside you for a moment.

The story unfolded in exaggerated tones, a wicked dragon terrorizing villages, flames licking at painted houses. The crowd booed and cheered in equal measure.

You felt a strange swell of pride at the sight of the dragon puppet — crude but magnificent in its own way. Its painted scales shimmered in firelight.

“Look,” you murmured softly. “They’ve made it beautiful.”

Aerion did not answer.

Onstage, the knight challenged the dragon. Steel flashed, not real steel of course , but dramatic all the same.

The dragon roared — a burst of false flame eliciting delighted gasps from the children.

Then the knight drove her blade straight through the dragon’s chest.

The beast collapsed in theatrical agony. The crowd erupted in cheers.

You blinked once. Then you glanced at Aerion. And the air shifted.

His expression had gone utterly still. Cold in that menacing way it always did.

Before you could reach for him, he stepped forward into the clearing space before the stage.

The cheering faltered.

The puppeteer girl froze, eyes widening as recognition dawned.

Aerion mounted the low platform in three strides.

“Aerion—” you began clutching at air where your brother should have stood.

Too late.

His hand shot out, gripping the girl’s fingers around the wooden sword.

“You dare,” he said softly, dangerously so only the girl could hear. “to slay a dragon?”

She stammered something you did not hear but the horror in her eyes would haunt you forever.

The smallfolk shifted uneasily.

You lunged forward but a Kingsguard caught your arm.

“Aerion! Leave her be!” you shouted. He ignored you completely.

A sickening crack split the air. The crunching of bones filled your ears. The girl screamed.

The sound twisted in your gut.

He bent her fingers back, methodically, as if inspecting some broken toy. Blood began to drip onto the painted boards.

The tent fell deathly silent except for her sobbing.

“Stop it!” you cried, struggling against the guard restraining you. “You’re hurting her you fool!”

Aerion looked almost bored, except for the manic glint in his eye.

Another crunch.

You felt bile rise in your throat.

The guards formed a tight circle around him now — not to stop him, but to shield him from interference.

You had never hated him more.

The tent canvas suddenly shifted as someone large forced their way through the crowd.

He was enormous. Broad as an ox. Taller than any man present. His hair was tangled, his jaw clenched in fury.

Before anyone could react, he surged forward and struck Aerion across the face.

The blow echoed like thunder. Aerion staggered, caught off guard.

The man did not spare him.

He grabbed your brother by the collar and drove his fist into him again and again. Blood splattered the boards. Aerion’s helm clattered to the ground.

The smallfolk gasped.

“Aerion!” you screamed.

You tore free briefly before another knight caught you.

“Please!” you cried to the mountain of a man. “Leave him be!”

You hated Aerion. You feared him. But he was still your brother.

The guards tried to pull the man away, but he shrugged them off like flies. His strength was unreal.

Finally, several men together managed to wrench him backward.

Aerion stumbled upright, blood running from his mouth, one eye already swelling.

Humiliation radiated from him more fiercely than pain.

He spat crimson onto the boards.

“Why did you throw your life away?” Aerion continued coldly. “For this whore? She is scarcely worth it. A traitor. The dragon ought never lose.”

“You’ve loosened one of my teeth,” he said slowly.

The giant, the hedge knight, you realized distantly — stood breathing heavily, unrepentant.

“Aerion,” you whispered, stepping forward despite yourself.

He shot you a look that froze you in place.

The guards seized the large knight.

He did not struggle now.

You saw then the puppet girl clutching her ruined hand, tears streaking her cheeks.

Guilt twisted sharply in your chest.

“We’ll start by breaking out all of yours,” Aerion said with eerie calm.

“No,” you breathed though it was a whisper.

The guards dragged the hedge knight forward.

And then a familiar voice commanded the guards to unhand the hedge knight.

Clear and steady.

You turned.

Standing at the edge of the tent was a boy in peasant’s clothing, head shaved nearly to the scalp. Dusty and determined but alive.

Your heart stopped. Aegon was here and gods be good he was fine.

Aerion stared, disbelief curdling into fury.

“You impudent little rat! What have you done to your hair?”

The boy did not flinch.

“I cut it off brother,” he said simply. “I did not want to look like you.” His words were as much taunt as honesty.

A collective murmur swept through the tent.

You broke fully free of the guards this time.

“Egg?” you rushed towards the boy.

Aegon stood firm despite the tension thick as smoke.

He looked smaller somehow without his silver hair. More ordinary. More real.

Relief flooded you so violently you nearly swayed.

He was safe. He was here.

Aerion looked between him and the giant knight — comprehension dawning.

The giant Duncan, you heard someone whisper gaped on in disbelief.

Your pulse roared in your ears. What was happening?

This was spiraling beyond control.

Outside, you could already hear more armored boots approaching.

This would reach your father. Your uncle. The realm.

You stepped beside Egg instinctively, your hand finding his shoulder.

He was solid beneath your touch. Alive.

Aerion’s lip curled at the sight.

“Traitors, the lot of you,” he spat, though blood made the word thick and his appearance wicked.

The tent felt suddenly too small to contain the consequences gathering within it.

And you, for the first time since arriving at Ashford, felt not thrill. Not mischief.

But horrible, awful dread.

©padmespetal 2025 : I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION

tags:

[httpsvalarr]

valarr is the type of guy that has a picture of you in his wallet. he'll proudly show it off to anyone that asks about you. doesn't matter if it's at an event you couldn't make it to or some old acquaintance he runs into at the store asking if he has a girlfriend, he'll gladly tell them ‘yes, i have a girlfriend!’ and pull out the picture in his wallet to show you off. it's the cutest thing ever.

[fawnme1]

a lesson in respect

⭑.ᐟ valarr targaryen x cousin!reader

they spent months whispering that she wasn't enough of a woman. it took less than a minute for her to remind them she was a dragon

warnings: graphic violence, blood, misogynistic comments

The whispers had started months ago. They slithered through the corridors of the Red Keep, hiding behind silk sleeves and jeweled smiles.

No child yet.

Poor Valarr.

Perhaps the princess is barren.

Perhaps the gods have cursed their line. The rumors reached every corner of court eventually. Servants spoke of it while changing bed linens. Ladies whispered it behind fans. Lords exchanged knowing glances whenever Princess Y/N Targaryen entered a room beside her husband, Prince Valarr.

As if she couldn't hear them.

As if she didn't know.

As if every moon that passed without a babe in her arms wasn't already a wound she carried herself.

Valarr never spoke of the rumors. He merely held her hand tighter whenever court became unbearable.

But that day, fate had decided someone would push too far.

The Great Hall was unusually crowded. Prince Baelor sat at the head of the gathering, discussing matters of justice. Prince Maekar stood beside him, arms folded across his chest.

Valarr lingered nearby, listening. Aerion looked bored enough to start a fight simply for entertainment. Several Kingsguard lined the hall while a shackled prisoner knelt before them.

The man had been captured after attacking a merchant caravan loyal to the crown. He was awaiting judgment.

Everyone's attention was fixed upon him.

Until the doors opened.

Princess Y/N entered.

The room shifted immediately. Not because she demanded attention. But because she never needed to.

Silver hair flowed down her back. A deep crimson gown swept behind her.

At her side walked Ser Harwin, her personal guard, a giant of a man who never left her unattended.

She crossed the hall without hesitation and approached Prince Maekar.

"Father."

Maekar glanced down.

"You needed something?"

She handed him a sealed document. "A raven from Summerhall."

He nodded. "Good."

Their conversation lasted barely a moment. Then she turned to leave. And that should have been the end of it.

Instead-

The prisoner laughed. A nasty, ugly sound. The entire hall fell silent.

Y/N stopped walking.

The man grinned through bloodied teeth. "Perhaps if the princess spent less time playing at politics and more time performing her womanly duties, the realm might finally have an heir."

Silence.

Complete silence.

The sort that falls before a storm.

Y/N froze.

Valarr's face darkened instantly.

Maekar took a step forward.

Aerion looked delighted by the possibility of violence.

But before any of them could move, Y/N slowly turned around. Her expression was terrifyingly calm. She walked back toward the prisoner. Each footstep echoed through the hall.

The prisoner visibly lost confidence.

Still, he smirked. "Did I offend-"

"Say it again."

The words were soft. The entire hall heard them.

The prisoner swallowed. "What?"

Y/N tilted her head. "I said, say it again."

Even Baelor looked uneasy. The prisoner glanced around. No one came to save him. No one looked willing to.

Emboldened by stupidity, he sneered. "I said perhaps if you performed your duties as a wife-"

He never finished.

Y/N stepped directly in front of him. Close enough that he had to crane his neck upward. For the first time, genuine fear entered his eyes.

"You know what fascinates me?" she asked quietly.

The prisoner said nothing.

"You seem to believe my worth is measured by the contents of my womb."

Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.

Y/N continued. "I am Princess Y/N Targaryen."

Her voice rang across the hall.

"Daughter of Prince Maekar."

She pointed toward Valarr.

"Wife to the future king."

Then toward Baelor.

"Niece to the Hand of the King."

Her violet eyes burned.

"And granddaughter of the Dragon."

The prisoner visibly trembled.

One step closer.

"I have commanded soldiers."

Another.

"I have negotiated with lords twice your intelligence."

Another.

"And yet you think my greatest duty is providing an heir."

The man began backing away despite his chains.

"I-I-"

"No."

Her voice cracked like a whip.

"You will listen."

For perhaps the first time in his life, the prisoner obeyed.

Y/N looked around the hall. At the lords. The knights. The Kingsguard. Every single witness.

Then she smiled. A beautiful smile. The kind that made men nervous.

"I want everyone here to remember this."

The prisoner started shaking.

"I want them to remember exactly who killed you."

Valarr's eyebrows shot upward.

Even Maekar looked surprised.

Then Y/N casually extended a hand. "Ser Harwin."

Without question, her guard reached beneath his cloak and placed a small dagger into her palm. The movement was so practiced it was clear this had happened before.

That realization unsettled everyone. The prisoner started screaming.

"Wait-"

Too late.

Y/N grabbed his hair. Pulled his head back. And with one swift motion, drew the blade across his throat. Blood sprayed across the stone floor. The prisoner collapsed. Dead before he hit the ground.

The hall stood frozen. Absolutely frozen. The only sound was the dagger dripping blood. Y/N stared at the corpse for a moment. Then wiped the blade on the dead man's tunic. Handed it back to Ser Harwin. And smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her sleeve.

"Good day, gentlemen." She turned.

Walked toward the doors. And left. Just like that. The doors closed behind her.

Silence lingered. Long. Painful. Silence.

Finally Aerion broke first. A grin stretched across his face. "Well."

Another pause.

"That was magnificent."

Baelor pinched the bridge of his nose. "Gods help us."

One of the Kingsguard quietly nodded. Another looked impressed despite himself.

Valarr stared at the doors through which his wife had disappeared. Something suspiciously close to pride settled across his features.

Maekar noticed. "You are smiling."

Valarr didn't bother denying it. "A little."

Aerion laughed. "A little? Cousin, your wife just murdered a man in front of half the court."

Valarr folded his arms. "He insulted her."

"He insulted her fertility."

"That too."

Aerion barked another laugh.

Baelor sighed heavily. "At least pretend this concerns you."

"It does."

Valarr's gaze remained fixed on the doors. A soft smile touching his lips. "Mostly because I suspect she is going to be furious when she realizes blood got on her favorite gown."

Even Maekar failed to suppress a small smirk. And throughout the hall, every man present shared the same realization.

The princess they had all believed quiet. Gentle. Patient. Had fire in her veins worthy of Old Valyria.

And gods help the fool who forgot it.

[callsign-hexen]

The Aftermath of Spring

Valarr Targaryen x wife!reader

Summary: The Spring Sickness has finally ended, the king has died and his son has risen to the throne. Valarr and Matarys make it through Spring, and Valarr's wife thanks the Gods for it...

word count: 3.5k

Tags: married couple fluff, Daeron II is dead, Baelor II is here! fix it fic, Aerion is mentioned (he is a warning even as a mention), Valarr and reader have two children, crying, reader is not described and her house in not mentioned, but she is AFAB, happy ending

----------------------------------------------------

The fever had died down a few days prior.

She couldn’t help but thank the Gods. After so long of sitting next to her beloved husband, feeling useless in being unable to do nothing as the maesters continued their work. All she could do is pray and help in whatever small ways the maesters would allow her, which was mostly changing the towel on his forehead and helping him eat and drink when he was able. After so many days, the only thing keeping her hope up was the feeling of his hand holding his. She dreaded the day she would wake up and not feel that hold anymore.

The king died a week ago. The Queen, now Queen Mother, hasn’t left their shared room since. She only accepted visitors in the form of her chambermaids and her sons, especially if they had news of her grandsons.

The Spring Sickness had already taken many by the time it reached the Red Keep, which made everyone more on edge when the King had gotten sick, even more so when the princes Valarr and Matarys fell with him. The Royal Family already got close with tragedy when the Trial of Seven occurred at Ashford Meadow, where Prince Baelor had received a harsh blow to the head by his younger brother, Prince Maekar. He remarkably survived with proper cognitive function and what would be a terrible scar in the back of his head. Now, his father is dead and left him King, but his two sons are slowly recovering from the Sickness by the grace of the Gods.

“You look deep in thought, my sweet,” Valarr told her, snapping her from her thoughts. She looked over from where she sat next to the bed, Valarr was sat up against his pillows with his hair in a rough state, especially his bangs which had dried in a strange fashion due to the towel that was placed upon him to help his body temperature. She chuckled to herself before reaching over to try to fix his hair, causing him to laugh as well with her, reaching his own hands up to swat her hers away. “Stop it!” he cried, like a child whose mother was teasing him, his face reddening, bringing more color to his face that was pale too long.

He took one of her hands in his and brought it to his lips, kissing it gently as he looked at her again. “What are you thinking about?” he asked his beloved. She took a seat next to him on the bed, one hand still in his while the other drifted form his hair to cradle his face. “I’m just thinking of the misfortune of the family as of late, it seems that the only good things that have happened is that the realm had your father as King and you and Matarys defeating the plague.”

“Not to mention Aerion being sent to Lys, it seems Uncle Maekar had finally had enough,” Valarr said, taking the hand on his face and kissing it before lowering it to their other set of conjoined hands. “Well, I’m only in this family by marriage, I keep certain talk of the Royal Family to it’s true members.” She laughed, despite years of marriage she always kept quiet about the interesting members of House Targaryen. Whether it be the drunken habits of Prince Daeron, the madness of Prince Rhaegel, or the cruel actions of Prince Aerion.

“I wager your uncle had enough when he nearly lost his brother due to Aerion’s antics. Imagine you and Matarys in their shoes, worsened by going to the hells together on the Redgrass.” She added, tightening her hold on his hands before leaning in to kiss Valarr on the head.

“Enough of that now,” she said as she rose from the bed, “you can imagine which two little ones have been wanting to see you for so long, calling for you almost every day.”

A smile crept onto his face at the thought of their children, Baelon who was 5 and Aemma who was 3, he hadn’t seen them since before he had gotten sick since they quarantined him and Matarys at their first signs of sickness. “Let them in, please let me see them!” he said, “they must have been so scared!”, he reached for her hand again, he surely would have gone onto his knees if he had the strength. His wife laughed again before kissing him again, “I will send for them, but only because the maesters have assured you are no longer a danger to spread the sickness, besides that you’re just needing to recover your strength. Which means they can’t be rough with you!”.

The children loved to play with Valarr, especially Baelon who would play “knights” with him while Aemma and their mother would play princesses locked in tall towers. Sometimes Valarr would play a villain who had either Aemma, or his wife captured and Baelon would be the brave hero to rescue the maiden.

After a few minutes, the children arrived. They nearly knocked the door down once they were given leave to finally see their father. “Kepa! Kepa!” they cried as they ran up to him, their mother had to catch them both from behind to ask, “What did we say to do?” only for the children to calm slightly and quietly, defeatedly say “to be careful with Kepa” before being allowed to approach the bed. Valarr laughed, patting the bed saying “don’t be scared, I’m not dead” which unfortunately sent Aemma crying.

“But you almost were, like great-grandfather! Please don’t go, please!” she cried with tears rolling down her face, her mother picked her up and placed her in Valarr’s lap, who held her tightly. “Don’t worry, my dove, I’m still here. The Stranger nearly got me and Uncle Matarys, but we fought him off valiantly.” The poor thing calmed down but still had her head shoved in her father’s shoulder, hugging and not letting go of him. “ao quba non” he muttered. You poor thing.

Baelon walked over to the edge of the bed, his mother pulling him up to sit next to Valarr against the pillows, Valarr’s other arm going around his shoulders. Valarr’s darling wife sitting on the bed, facing the three of them.

Baelon looked exactly like his father, but in an opposite way. His hair was white with the dark auburn streak in the same place of his father’s white. His eyes were as if you placed a mirror to Valarr’s, Baelon’s left was the purple one and his right a hazel brown. Aemma was everything a Valyrian princess should be. Silver-gold locks flowing longer than you imagine for a girl of only three years, bright violet eyes, and skin as pale as milk.

 Everyone at court praised Baelon’s looks, an heir that finally looked more Valyrian than his father. King Baelor II looked more like his mother, the Queen Mother Myriah Martell who was a Dornish princess. He was often mocked for his looks behind his back, talks of him being a bastard, similar to his father, the late King Daeron II, whose real father was rumored to be the Dragon Knight, Prince Aemon Targaryen. Valarr himself earned certain looks when he was born looking exactly like King Baelor II, the white streak in his hair at least made his Valyrian lineage prove to be true.

When Aemma was born, the court would not stop fawning over her, with Rhaegel’s two girls being fully grown and Maekar’s two being at Summerhall, Aemma was the first Targaryen Princess that the Keep at seen in many years. Her hair was so perfect that there were rumors that her father was truly Prince Aerion Targaryen, the second son of Valarr’s Uncle Maekar, the King’s youngest brother. It didn’t help that the night that Valarr and his wife suspect Aemma may have been conceived on was a night where Prince Maekar and his children visited for a celebratory tourney for King Daeron II and Queen Myriah’s wedding anniversary, so the timing lined up.

The rumors weren’t well known, the love that Valarr and his wife showed for each other proved that neither would every want to share a bed with another, especially Prince Aerion. It was common knowledge that Valarr’s wife was not a fan of him, she often made sure to never be in a room with him where she couldn’t be as far from him as possible. If Princess Aemma was conceived through Prince Aerion “Brightflame”, it would not have been with her consent.

“she’s been crying ever since you were out with fever, even more so since Great-grandfather passed”, Baelon told his father, “We were able to see Uncle Matarys a few days ago, he cheered her up a bit.”

Valarr chuckled at the mention of his little brother, a man nearly grown at 17, He was close with his niece and nephew since he was so young when they were born, he loves them dearly and plays with them when not in training. Valarr imagined him, barely recovered and congested, laughing with the children and making them smile, likely tickling little Aemma to keep her mind off of the world outside the bed chamber. A world she’s too young to understand.

“Ah, I see” Valarr said, “and how was your uncle?”

“He was pale and sleepy, but still funny,” sniffled Aemma, her voice muffled from still being cuddled by her father, Valarr chucked at her, pulling her back and wiping her tears that were half dried. “He was cleared for visitors just a day or so before your fever lifted, they were hoping to see you first, but Matarys helped give them more hope,” his wife said, “Your father is hoping to see you soon too, he’s held up in a small council meeting but should be done soon.”

“He visited us quite a bit while you were all sick, I think he could sense our unrest”, muttered little Baelon, resting his head on his father’s body behind him, “there isn’t much to sense when you two are constantly calling for your father or crying when you can’t see him”, his mother teased, pinching his cheek. Baelon moved her hand away, “I didn’t cry! I was brave! Aemma is the one who cries!” he said. Valarr laughed at his son, who was puffing his chest out, trying to look like a little hero with all his might while his mother laughs to herself, “I’m sure you were, my little prince,” he said, kissing Baelon’s head.

“Muña?” Aemma asked, “can you see how long until Kekepa gets here?”

“Kekepa is already here, byka zaldrizes”, King Baelor II said as the guard let him through the door to Prince Valarr’s chambers. “Kekepa!” Aemma cried as she hopped off of the bed to run into his arms, he crouched down as he picked her up. “Father,” Valarr greeted the new king, “how are you fairing?” he asked. Baelor had walked across the room to stand next to his eldest's bed, “The headaches are nearly gone for a while now and the wound is healing splendidly. But it’s you I’m here for, I’ve gotten to see Matarys, he is out getting fresh air in the gardens as we speak. How are you, my son?”

“Much better now that the fever is gone, even more so that I’m able to see you all again.” Valarr said, Baelor reached his hand down to place it on the back of Valarr’s head. “Thank the Gods,” he said, “The septas have barely been seen outside of the sept for weeks now, they’ve been praying for everyone who has gotten ill, even more so for the family.” He paused for a moment, “as I mourn my father, I’m grateful the Gods left me my sons. I believe I’m selfish enough to say that your mother doesn’t get to have you yet,” he patted Valarr before removing his hand, Valarr gave him a small smile. Baelor sat down in a chair next to the bed, little Aemma in his lap.

The King loves his grandson, Baelon, very much, but his heart melted the moment Aemma came. With three younger brothers and two sons, he was ecstatic to finally have a little girl to dote on.

“In better news, there are reports of the plague dying down. Less people dying, more recovering, and less contracting the illness. It seems to be the end of the Spring Sickness, that’s what they’ve decided to call all of this.”

“Dreadfully beautiful thing to call it, to think that something as happy as spring could be capable of bringing so much turmoil,” his good daughter said. “Correct you are, my dear,” he nodded. “In other news, Maekar and his children are coming to visit. They’ve come to mourn father and celebrate my rise as King. Poor Aemon won’t be able to come, young Maesters-in-training seldom leave Old Town before they complete their studies. But Daeron, Daella, Aegon, and Rhae are coming with him.”

“Are they bringing the tall man?” Baelon asked, rising up from the bed in excitement. He got to join the family at the Ashford Tourney, they saw it as a good way to introduce him to sights outside of the Keep for the first time. Dear Baelon was enthralled by Ser Duncan the Tall the moment he saw him in the tent of the puppeteers and was sad when he travelled with his cousins to Summerhall instead of King’s Landing when pledging his sword to House Targaryen. Baelor laughed at his grandson and said “yes, my boy. They are bringing Ser Duncan with them. They need someone to keep young Aegon from running off on another adventure. They departed Summerhall two days ago and should be arriving in a fortnight.”

“Yay!” Baelon cried, thrusting his arms into the air, almost hitting Valarr in the head while doing so. “Tall man! Tall man!” he shouted, not loud enough to startle anyone but loud enough that the guards outside the door could hear. “Ser Duncan, my love,” his mother corrected, “Ser Duncan! Ser Duncan!” he continued.

Valarr laughed at his eldest as he paraded himself around the room chanting his excitement for the large knight. “You would think he was more excited about seeing his cousins than a knight he only met once, but the mind of a boy of 5 is a strange one,” Baelor laughed and got up from the chair, setting Aemma down as she ran to her big brother, following him around in his parade. “I’m going to see if I can corral your brother up to see if he is up for having a family dinner once you’re feeling more on your feet. I apologize for getting Baelon so riled up this late in the day, I know it’s nearly bedtime for these two.”

Baelon stopped in his tracks, poor Aemma nearly falling after bumping into him. “What? But how are we supposed to go to bed when father is finally awake? There’s so much to talk to him about!” he said, Aemma nodding her head next to him. “You can with the anticipation of getting a full day with him tomorrow, now come tell your father goodnight before going back to the nursery. And before you two start, don’t act like I didn’t see you to yawning and nearly drifting off while we were talking,” their mother said as she got up and took Aemma into her arms and placed her hand on Baelon’s back. The children whined in retaliation but went with her, hugged their father, and left with their grandfather to escort them back to the children’s room.

Once the children were in their chambers, Valarr and his love had been prepared for bed. He looked at her from the bed as she brushed her hair at her vanity in her nightgown, a thin robe wrapped around her. He couldn’t help but feel a huge weight drifting off of him.

Relief, he was feeling relief.

It wasn’t relief of not dying, he thought. While the fever was hot, he would drift in and out of sleep. He would have dreams while he was out every once in a while. He dreamt of his mother, his childhood, and everything that lead to where he was currently. It was his life, he realized in his haze. His life was ending, his mind was preparing him to let go of his life here. He could barely remember it once he woke up, but he does now. He remembered seeing a vision of meeting her for the first time, it was during a feast in celebration of the turn of the year.

He was sitting at the large table with the rest of his family, a boy of 16 with an 11-year-old Matarys sitting next to him talking about a new bug he acquired for his collection earlier that day. He looked up from his brother’s rambling to see what he could only describe as a woman who was the Maiden herself. She was sitting at a table with the rest of her house, leaning in to listen to a fellow member, another young woman, perhaps a younger sister or cousin. After a few seconds, the ethereal creature looked up at him, her eyes glowing in the candlelight.

They locked eyes and could barely look away, until he finally got the courage to get up and ask her to dance. And when they started, they could barely stop. They danced on and on, at the ire of the other young ladies who wanted a chance to sway the Young Prince into marrying them instead.

They married within the year and introduced Baelon before the turn of the next one.

When she was done brushing her hair, she went to lay with him in bed, removing her robe before reaching for the candle to blow it out. “Wait,” he said, she looked at him in question. “Why?” she questioned, “it’s growing quite late, are you not tired?”

“I just wish to see your face a few minutes more,” he said simply, “I wasn’t sure when I’d see it again, we haven’t shared a bed since before I was sick. I’ve missed you dearly, wife.”

“Well, whatever you’re thinking, I suggest we wait a few days since you’re still recovering,” she teased.

Valarr sighed and leaned his head against the headboard, “I was sick, not injured, my love.” She chuckled and got in bed, sitting up with him under the covers. They looked at each other in silence as she reached a hand up to run her fingers in his hair. She looked into her husband’s eyes as her own began to water. His soft gaze turned into a worried one, “my love?” he asked. The tears fell as she wrapped him into her arms. He pulled her onto his lap, straddling him as she hid her face in his neck. She felt his arms tighten around her, one around her waist and another running a hand up and down her back, trying to soothe her ache. The sound of her soft cries pained him more than he could say.

“My love, please tell me what ails you, tell me how to take it away” he begged softly, his face in her hair, smelling the sweet aroma of the oils from her bath. After a few minutes, she calmed down enough to lean back to look at him, her hands resting at the back of his head. Her left hand tracing his silver streak, silence once again finding itself between them. He placed his hands on her face and wiped her tears away softly. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, sniffling, “I’m so sorry.” She covered her face with her hands, looking down and away from him. He shook his head, reaching up to take her hands in his. “No, it’s alright, love. It’s alright” he said softly.

Their hands settled in between them in their laps, he leaned in to kiss her on the forehead, “please”, he whispers, and then her nose, “please, talk to me.”

She sniffled and looked up at him, “I almost lost you,” she said so quietly he almost didn’t hear her. “I almost lost you, the children nearly lost the father they love, along with the uncle they hold so dear. They almost lose their grandfather, and shortly after lost their great-grandsire, and that alone devastated them, I can’t even begin to think what would have happened if you—” she cut herself with another sob, she pulled herself together, and looked at him to see his own eyes watering. “I don’t think I could bear it. I don’t think I ever could. To see you laying there, delirious and ill, it nearly broke me. Please, never scare me like that again, never again.”

“Never,” he said, “never if I can stop it. The Gods themselves shall have to pry me from the arms of my wife and children, the ones we have and the ones of the future. I shall never part from you,” he pledged while leaning in for a kiss.

They held each other in their arms until morning, placing soft kisses upon each other in the warm rays of the morning sun.

-----------------------------------------------——

A/N: this was so fun! Now I can focus on Blackbar!reader in peace. This was posted in a slight rush because my fiancé went to bed about 20 minutes ago and I can feel him about to call me, GOOD NIGHT

[miiroki]

𝐀𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧, 𝐒𝐨 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 ┅ 𝖸𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾! 𝖵𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗋 𝖳𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗒𝖾𝗇 & 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝘐𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥, 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘝𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘳, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘖𝘳 𝘝𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘳’𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘦.

﹙𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭﹚

TW: blood, gore? And descriptions of killing

NOTE: she’s baaaaaaackkkkkk. This might be my favourite au yet!

From the high, arched window of the Red Keep’s inner courtyard, the world looked like a beautifully painted tapestry. Down below, Prince Valarr Targaryen was performing his finest role: the Perfect Prince.

You watched him charm a cluster of noble ladies, his chestnut hair catching the afternoon sun, making it look almost bronze. His laughter light and musical. He was the hope of the realm, the beloved grandson of King Daeron II, polite to a fault and graceful beyond measure.

But you knew better than the mindless flock. You knew the weight of his hands, and the darkness that lived just beneath that lovely porcelain smile

Valarr had been the first of your cousins to hold you when you were born. While your own father, Maekar, had been away doing whatever it is he does, Valarr had cradled you as a babe. You grew up wrapped in his shadow. When you were children, the others thought he was simply being a doting older cousin. Though they would never see the things he brought you in the secret, shaded corners of the Godswood.

He would press wild roses into your palms, followed by sticky honey sweets, and then, with the very same gentle hands, he would present you with a dead lizard, its neck cleanly snapped, or a small bird with its eyes meticulously plucked out.

"For my little star," he would whisper, his two-toned eyes glassy, and entirely devoid of the warmth he showed the rest of the court. "Beautiful things for a beautiful girl."

You had found it strange, even unsettling, but a child’s love is a malleable thing. You grew to accept his macabre gifts alongside his affection. You loved him after all. You always had.

Down in the courtyard, Valarr suddenly tilted his head up. As if sensing your gaze, his eyes locked onto your window. The charming, raucous smile he gave the ladies vanished for a fraction of a second, replaced by a look of hunger that sent a shiver straight down your spine. Then, with a blink, the prince was back, bowing to his admirers.

"You spend too much time in his pocket," your brother Aerion spat later that evening, swirling his wine. "It’s uncouth. You are a maiden grown now, sister. People talk."

"He is our cousin, Aerion," you replied softly, keeping your eyes on your embroidery.

"He is a man," Daeron muttered from the corner, surprisingly sober for once. "And Valarr dotes on you like a dog with a bone. Father says it ends now. You are to be married soon."

The needle pricked your finger. A single drop of blood bloomed on the white fabric.

Your father, Maekar, had finally arranged it. By the end of the summer, you were to wed the son of the Lord of Casterly Rock. A young Lannister. He was your age, a master of poetry and song, gentle and perfectly amiable.

You had met him once; he was perfectly fine. Not cruel, not abusive (which was rare). You had resigned yourself to your fate: you would marry him, give him a few golden-haired heirs, and live out your days in the warm stone of the West.

But the thought of leaving King’s Landing—of leaving him—felt like a slow choking.

That night, you slipped away into the dark woods on the edge of the kingswood, your favorite childhood hiding spot. The canopy blocked out the moonlight, leaving the forest thick, black, and suffocating.

"You shouldn't be out here alone, little star."

Valarr materialized from the shadows, stepping so silently he might have been a ghost. He wore a dark riding cloak, his eyes gleaming in the dark.

You didn't hold back. The tears spilled over your cheeks as you confessed your woes, weeping over the impending summer wedding, the Lannister boy, and the terrifying reality of being sent away to Casterly Rock.

A dragon caged is what you were.

Valarr listened in chilling silence. He didn't dare interrupt. He only stepped closer, lifting a gloved hand to brush the hair from your face. He leaned down, his lips pressed against your eyelids, gently kissing your tears away. His skin was unnaturally warm.

"Do not weep, please. You know I hate to see you cry." Valarr murmured against your skin, his voice a low, rhythmic purr that made your heart hammer against your ribs. "Do not worry your little heart out, sweet girl. Valarr will fix everything. I always takes care of my own."

Three days later, the news arrived from the Westerlands.

The young Lannister heir had fallen suddenly, violently ill. The maesters claimed it was a sudden, tragic season’s illness—a racking fever that caused him to bleed from his nose and ears until his heart simply quit. He was dead within forty-eight hours.

The court plunged into mourning for the alliance that could have been. You wore black and offered your condolences, but deep in your chest, a dark, wicked spark of joy ignited.

Heavens above knew you weren't sad. If anything, you were relieved.

That very night, you were startled awake. A heavy hand clamped gently over your mouth.

You gasped, eyes flying open to see Valarr leaning over your bed. The moonlight cut across his face, illuminating a wild, ecstatic grin. He smelled of sweat, leather, and something metallic.

"Dress quickly," he whispered, his fingers lingering on your lips before pulling away. "The horses are saddled. Let us ride in the dark. I know how much you have missed it."

You didn't ask questions. You followed him into the night, the wind howling in your ears as you rode side-by-side, his laughter echoing through the trees like a madman's song.

—

A year later, your father tried again. A Tyrell cousin. A handsome boy who promised you a garden of winter roses.

You found yourself weeping in the woods yet again. And again did Valarr kiss your tears dry.

Two weeks later, the Tyrell boy suffered a horrific fall from his horse during a hunt, his neck snapped cleanly in two—much like the lizards Valarr used to bring you.

Then came a Bracken. A sudden, fatal choking fit on a piece of venison during a feast.

Every time a match was made, you would cry, Valarr would promise to "fix it," and the stranger would vanish from the earth, leaving you blissfully unbetrothed. The court began to whisper that you were cursed, a black widow before you could even reach the altar.

Your father grew frustrated, and your brothers suspicious.

Sitting at your window, you watched Valarr down below. He was laughing with the Kingsguard, the picture of chivalry and royal grace. But you knew what lay beneath the velvet and silver. He was a monster wearing the crown of a prince.

And as he turned his head, catching your gaze yet again from the high window, he offered you a small nod. A sort of silent promise that no one else would ever dare to claim what was his.

A cold dread pooled in your stomach, but as you looked at your perfect, terrifying cousin, you couldn't help but smile back.

—

The tension at the family supper had been thick enough to cut with a dagger, but it wasn't until the servants began clearing the heavy silver platters that the true shift occurred.

Your uncle, Prince Baelor Breakspear—the Hand of the King and the heir to the Iron Throne—stood up and caught your eye. With a gentle but firm nod, he gestured toward the quiet privacy of the adjacent council chamber. "A word, niece," he said softly.

Before you could even push your chair back, a shadow fell over you. Valarr was already on his feet, his hand instinctively dropping to the back of your chair, his eyes darting sharply between you and his father. "I will accompany her," Valarr said, his voice smooth, but carrying that underlying, rigid edge you knew all too well.

Baelor placed a heavy, warning hand on his son’s shoulder. "No, Valarr. This conversation is meant for her ears alone. Remain here."

Valarr’s jaw tightened. For a fraction of a second, the polite, obedient prince vanished, replaced by the dangerous, volatile thing that lived beneath his skin. His grip on your chair turned so white his knuckles popped. But he forced a tight, agreeable smile. Leaning down under the pretense of adjusting your cloak, his lips brushed the shell of your ear, his breath ragged.

"I will be right outside the door," he whispered, a low vibration. "If he makes you uneasy, if you feel even a flicker of fright, you call for me. I am right here."

When you stepped into the chamber, Baelor closed the heavy oak door, shutting Valarr out. The Hand of the King looked tired, but his eyes were filled with a profound, paternal kindness as he took your hands gingerly in his own.

"It has come to my attention," Baelor began, his voice echoing in the quiet room, "that Valarr has been systematically refusing courting visitors of all kinds. Highborn ladies from the Reach, the Westerlands, the Vale... he turns them all away. He finally came to me, niece. He made his intentions entirely clear. He wishes to marry you."

A sudden, fierce flush crawled up your neck, burning your cheeks. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird, and suddenly you couldn’t meet your uncle’s gaze any longer.

Baelor sighed, squeezing your hands. "To be the wife of the future king... it is not an easy task, sweet girl. The court is a nest of vipers, and the crown is heavy. But I love my son, and I care deeply for you. If you love him, and if you are willing to take on this burden... I will allow it. I will speak to your father, and let the two of you marry."

You could barely think straight. The blood rushed to your ears, a dizzying, intoxicating wave of pure relief and euphoria. The nightmare of being shipped off to a stranger, of being torn away from Valarr’s dark, protective embrace—it was gone. Erased with a single sentence.

"Yes," you breathed, the word slipping out before he could even finish. "Yes, Uncle. More than anything."

—

Suddenly, the grim, oppressive walls of the Red Keep seemed to glow with a brilliant, blinding light. The news of the betrothal swept through the castle, and with it, a profound shift in the young prince. Valarr was absolutely beaming, a radiant, blinding sun that left the court in awe.

He had started to permanently attached himself to your side.

Every morning brought new treasures to your chambers. Rare Myrish lace, ropes of perfect pearls, silks dyed the color of dragon’s blood, and baskets of your favorite honey sweets.

When he had been forced to court other ladies in the past, he had been a model of polite etiquette. But with you? It was a far cry from his past behaviour. It was entirely transparent to the entire court who his favorite girl was.

He doted on you, brushed your hair, kissed your knuckles in front of lords and smallfolk alike, and you absolutely lavished in it. You felt entirely safe, wrapped in the golden bubble of his obsessive devotion.

But outside your little bubble, the shadows were growing longer.

"They say the young Crakehall boy was found in the harbor," Aerion muttered around a mouthful of roasted boar, his eyes glittering with a malicious, drunken amusement. "Bloated like a toad. And that Mooton heir who dared to send her a poem last moon? Disappeared from his inn. Not a trace left but a puddle of blood on the floorboards."

The laughter around the supper table died down slightly. Your father, Maekar, frowned deeply into his wine cup.

"It’s a curse," Daeron hiccuped, slurring his words. "Any man who so much as looks at our sweet sister ends up feeding the crows."

Aerion leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Valarr, who was sitting right beside you, calmly cutting a piece of meat on your plate for you. "I have a theory," Aerion sneered, his voice dripping with mock secrecy. "I think our dear cousin Valarr doesn't sleep at all. I think he turns into a demon dragon at night. He flies out the window, hunts down every single one of her past suitors, and tears them to pieces in the dark."

The table erupted into jests and uneasy laughter. Even Baelor offered a amused shake of his head at his nephew's wild imagination. Valarr chuckled softly, a light, aristocratic sound, and popped a piece of perfectly cut meat into your mouth. "A demon dragon, Aerion? You cut me deep. I prefer a quiet night's rest."

You chewed slowly, the food turning to mush in your mouth.

Everyone else was laughing, treating it as one of Aerion's cruel jests. But as you looked down at Valarr’s hands—the beautiful, pale hands currently pouring you a cup of sweet arbor gold—you noticed a faint, missed trace of dark, dried crimson buried deep beneath his fingernail.

He wasn't a demon dragon. He was just a man in love.

—

The night before the royal wedding, the Red Keep was suffocating. The castle was bursting at the seams with lords and ladies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, heavy perfumes, and a manic, festive energy.

But inside your bedchambers, the air was cold, and your chest felt tightly bound. Anxiety, sharp and relentless, clawed at your throat. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't sit still.

A faint click broke the silence of the room. From the hidden passage behind the tapestry, a shadow stepped out.

Valarr slipped into the room, locking the heavy door behind him. He looked exhausted, yet his eyes blazed with a desperate, frantic hunger the moment they landed on you.

"I couldn't stay away, little star," he murmured, rushing to your side and wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you against his chest. "Tomorrow will be madness. The septons, the feasts, the crowds... I won't be able to look at you, not truly, until the vows are said. I couldn't stand a whole day without seeing you."

He smiled, a soft, boyish thing, and began to untie his tunic. He had already announced his intention to sleep in your quarters, promising to slip back out through the hidden tunnel before your handmaidens arrived at dawn. He unlaced the fine velvet, slipping his arms out. Valarr always preferred to sleep bare-chested, his skin naturally radiating a strange, feverish heat.

But as the fabric fell away, a flash of jagged, angry red caught your eye.

Across his forearm was a deep, raw gash, the edges poorly bound and weeping slightly. Your breath hitched. "Valarr... what is that? What happened to your arm?"

He didn't even look down at it. He merely offered a dismissive, airy chuckle, pulling you toward the massive four-post bed. "Nothing to worry your beautiful head over, my love. A minor mishap during a late-night ride through the woods. A stray branch. It’s nothing serious, I promise."

You wanted to believe him, but the image of the trace of blood under his fingernails from days ago flashed through your mind. Still, you let him pull you down into the feather mattress. He wrapped his long arms around you, pulling your back against his chest, his chin resting in your hair. It was a position you had found comfort in a thousand times before.

But tonight, the comfort wouldn't come.

Your mind was a roaring storm. You shifted to the left. You turned to the right. Your legs twitched under the heavy furs. Every time you tried to close your eyes, your heart hammered against your ribs.

Valarr endured the relentless squirming for an hour, his grip tightening slightly each time you moved, until finally, he shifted. He leaned over you, his hair falling like a curtain around your face, blocking out the rest of the dark room. His eyes were wide, swirling with worry.

"What is it?" he whispered, his voice frantic, his fingers tracing your jawline almost too hard. "Why are you so worried, little star? Tell me. Is it the wedding? Is it the crowd? Are you afraid of tomorrow? Tell me who is upsetting you. Give me a name."

"I... I don't know, Valarr," you stammered, your voice trembling. "I don't know why. I just can't calm down. My chest... it won't stop hurting."

Valarr stared down at you, his pupils dilated so wide his eyes looked almost black. He seemed to be searching your face for a script, an answer, until suddenly, a spark of absolute madness lit up his features. It was as if a brilliant, terrible idea had just struck him.

"Ah," he breathed, a breathless, ecstatic smile breaking across his face. "I know. I know what will fix it. Wait here."

He scrambled off the bed, his bare chest gleaming in the moonlight. He rushed over to his leather satchel resting on the table, digging inside until he pulled out a small, heavy iron ice box. It was the kind maesters used to transport delicate, volatile medicines. He brought it back to the bed, setting it right in front of you on the silk sheets.

You shuffled closer to the edge, your legs swinging over the edge of the bed.

"Open it," he whispered, his breath coming in short, excited pants. "Open it, my love. See what I brought you."

With trembling fingers, you reached out and popped the heavy iron latch. You lifted the lid.

The smell of copper and frost hit your nose instantly. Resting on a bed of melting ice was a jagged, horrific mass of raw flesh. A human heart, freshly carved, the vessels severed and frozen in dark, coagulated crimson.

A gasp caught in your throat. Panic flared in your veins—it was a visceral, terrifying sight. But years of growing up by Aerion and Valarr’s side had taught you how to master your face. You forced your expression to remain perfectly still, staring at the gory offering.

Valarr didn't wait for a reaction. He slid off the bed, sinking to his knees on the floorboards right before you. He reached into the box with his bare hands, lifting the heavy, cold heart out of the ice. Dark, melting blood spilled over his knuckles, dripping onto his pristine white linen riding pants, staining the fabric a horrific, deep scarlet.

"Do you see it?" Valarr looked up at you from the floor, his face completely unhinged, flushed with a manic, intoxicating adoration. He looked like a madman, a beautiful, terrifying creature entirely consumed by a holy fervor. "I did this for you. I’ve always done this for you. That Lannister boy? The Tyrell? The Bracken? Every single one of those pathetic, sniveling lords who dared to look at you, who dared to think they could take you away from me? I rid you of them."

He pressed the bloody heart closer to his chest, his hands entirely coated in the thick, crimson fluid.

"They didn't deserve you," he hissed, his voice a ragged, breathless purr. "They didn't know how to worship you. They bothered you! I saw how you cried in the woods. I saw how their names made you weep. I couldn't let them breathe the same air as you. This one—this is the Crakehall boy. The last one who dared to eye you at the feast. I tore it right out of him, little star. For you. Everything I do, every drop of blood I spill, it is an altar built for you."

He leaned his head against your knee, staining your nightgown with blood, looking up at you with the glassy, devoted eyes of a dog begging for approval.

He was completely, and utterly insane. He was a monster who had painted the Red Keep red just to keep you smiling.

And as you sat there, looking down at your blood-soaked, crazed prince kneeling at your feet, the cold anxiety in your chest suddenly vanished.

In its place, a strange, dark heat began to bloom deep in your stomach. A wicked, thrilling shiver ran down your spine.

Everyone else in the world was fickle, bound by duty, laws, and fleeting emotions. But your Valarr? He would butcher the entire realm if you asked him to. He would tear the stars from the sky and drown the world in blood just to keep your heart beating fast. He was completely, dangerously, and entirely yours.

It was terrifying. It was unnerving.

And, faiths help you, it was the most intoxicating thing you had ever felt.

A slow, dark smile crept onto your lips. You reached down, ignoring the wet, sticky crimson, and cupped his cheek, tilting his beautiful, mad face up to yours. "You did all that for me, Valarr?" you whispered.

Valarr leaned heavily into your bloody palm, a soft, pathetic whimper of pure ecstasy escaping his throat. "Anything," he gasped, his eyes locking onto yours with a terrifyingly beautiful devotion. "Anything for my queen."

—

The night was alive.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a roaring ocean of noise, gold, and crimson. The wedding feast had bled deep into the small hours of the night, and the celebrations showed no signs of slowing down. Bards plucked frantically at their lutes, lords roared with drunken laughter, and the wine flowed like a river.

Yet, amidst the swirling crowd of dancers and well-wishers, the space beside you on the high dais sat entirely empty.

Your dear husband was nowhere to be found.

You had sat through a dozen toasts, your smile perfectly fixed, but the dark heat in your stomach from the night before was burning.

After questioning a handful of oblivious guests, you slipped away from the high table, cornering a tense Gold Cloak near the threshold of the hall. He stammered, bowing low, before admitting he had seen Prince Valarr slip down the quiet, left corridor moments ago.

You followed the path away from the noise, the music of the feast fading into a dull, rhythmic thumping against the stone walls. The corridor grew darker, lit only by flickering wall sconces. Then, you saw it. A dark, wet droplet on the cold stone. Then another. A small, smeared trail of crimson leading toward a secluded alcove.

You stepped around the corner and found him.

Valarr stood over a crumpled form, his chest heaving. The magnificent, pristine white wedding robes he had taken his vows in were now utterly ruined, drenched in deep, sickening red. His face, usually so clean and perfect, was splattered with a fresh coat of it, and his hands were stained entirely to the wrists. He was a vision of absolute butchery.

Hearing your soft footsteps, Valarr snapped his head around, his eyes wide and wild. The moment he recognized you, a flash of pure panic crossed his features—not because he had been caught, but for you.

"No, no, little star, don't step any closer," he breathed frantically, holding his sticky, red hands out to keep you back. "Your dress. Look at your dress. It’s too beautiful to ruin. Stay back, my love."

You looked down at your lavish, white-and-silver wedding gown, then up at him. A slow, dark thrill thrummed through your veins. Instead of retreating, you took a deliberate step forward, your delicate silk slippers stepping right over the fresh, cooling corpse of whatever unfortunate lord had dared to slight you tonight.

You reached out, entirely ignoring his warnings, and cupped his blood-splattered face in your hands. The copper smell was thick and suffocating, but you only leaned closer, a soft, scolding coo escaping your lips.

"Oh, Valarr," you sighed, tracing his cheekbone with your thumb, smearing the wet crimson across his pale skin. "Look at you. What am I to do with you? You are entirely drenched in blood. I still wanted to dance to so many more songs tonight, but you’ve gone and made a mess of yourself before the feast is even over. You must clean up first, my sweet prince."

Valarr stared at you, his breath hitching. Hearing your gentle, unbothered voice, seeing the utter lack of fear in your eyes, drove him into a state of pure, ecstatic delirium. A ragged, broken whine escaped his throat.

"My queen," he gasped. He seized your hands—instantly coating your fingers in the dead man's blood—and pulled you fiercely against him.

He kissed you. It was a feverish, desperate, and bruising thing. His lips parted yours, and the sharp, metallic taste of iron flooded your mouth, thick and overwhelming.

He kissed you until you were breathless, his face sliding against yours, deliberately coating the bottom half of your jaw and cheeks in the warm, wet blood of his latest victim. It was a horrific branding, and it made your head spin with an intoxicating rush.

When he finally broke away, panting, he looked down at your blood-stained face and laughed—a sound of pure, unadulterated worship.

"We will dance later," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous, possessive light. "We will dance for the rest of our lives."

With a sudden movement, Valarr grabbed the edge of the dead lord’s fine velvet doublet, quickly wiping the excess wetness from his own palms and yours. Before you could even protest, he swept you off your feet, lifting you effortlessly into his arms.

He didn't take you back to the Great Hall. Instead, he moved through the shadows of the Red Keep like a ghost, slipping past the distracted guards with the movements of a predator.

He carried you through the winding corridors, straight to your new, shared royal quarters, kicking the heavy oak doors shut and barring them from the inside.

"Valarr, wait," you breathless murmured against his neck as he set you down on the edge of the massive bed. "The feast... the guests will notice we are gone. I wanted my dances."

"Let them wonder," Valarr growled softly, descending upon you like a shadow. His hands, still stained a faint pink, pinned your wrists to the mattress, trapping you beneath his heavy, feverish frame. "The realm had you for the afternoon, little star. But now the night and its stars belongs to me."

Despite your playful pleas and teasing pouts about the missed music, you never did make it back to the celebrations. Valarr kept you entirely hostage within the confines of those silk sheets for the rest of the wedding night, claiming every inch of you.

[goonergigi]

The cool toned prince and his warm bride |

Valarr x reader

Your husband has always been a stickler for the rules, never wanting to cause more grief than necessary. You were the opposite and enjoyed pushing boundaries. One night you have your husband push himself and join you in swimming in Blackwater Bay.

You were known throughout the keep as a trouble maker. Even before Valarr and you had married, many knew that you would be his polar opposite for life. He was calm and collected even when goaded by his cousins or brother. You, on the other hand, were fiery and hot, always ready to pick a fight or argue over anything. Some said you were more dragon than your husband, but with a quick glare they would back down and retract their words. You two were a perfect pair, with you ready to defend Valarr at the slighted critic and him ready to smooth you afterwards.

You often would sneak out of the keep to see more of King’s Landing. Sometimes you brought a guard with you, both of you in plain clothes to fit in. If there was a festival or celebration to be held, you would find your way to it. And today the people of Flea Bottom were celebrating the name day of Baelor the Blessed, a widely celebrated day across the lands as he had been so generous with the royal vaults. The people would celebrate him and call for blessing from the Sept and from the Gods themselves.

You had begged Valarr to come down and celebrate his relative, saying it would show the strength between the crown and the realm. You're sure he would have joined you if his father hadn’t called him away for a council meeting at the last moment. You spent the rest of the day in your chambers, sulking over the missed opportunity that wouldn’t come again til next year. You laid in bed in just your night shift, scheming, when the door to the room opened. You turned, looking over your shoulder still laying on your stomach in bed. In walks Prince Daeron, your husband's cousin. You and Daeron have been drinking buddies since your betrothal announcement and your subsequent relocation to the Red Keep. The sight of the boy made you light up, hopping off the bed to reach him with a hug. He laughed and held you back.

“Good cousin! I’m so happy to see you! When I heard you would not be joining us for the festivities I was quite worried.”

Daeron had gotten into the habit of calling you cousin, worried that people would think he was being too close to his cousin’s wife. While it wasn’t uncommon for Targaryens to marry family, Daeron and Valarr did what little they could to ensure people did not assume that of you. You smiled at Daeron, letting out a small sad sigh before saying,

“My dear husband was to take me but was pulled away by his duties right before we departed. I couldn’t imagine seeing everything without him.”

Daeron knew you too well to fall for that. Valarr could lock you up in the hand’s tower and you would still find a way to get to the celebration. Daeron sighed, playing the role of unwilling chaperone for one second before smiling again.

“Well we can’t have that. Get dressed, I will take you to see only the finest of what kings landing has to offer!”

You both knew that was a lie. You were gonna get piss drunk in some shoddy little inn then stumble about back home or into the arms of a guard to take you two home. You giggled at him as he turned and stole some of the wine you had sitting out for Valarr when he came back from his duties. You quickly threw on a dress you had gotten for these visits, a rough spun one that did well to hide you in the crowd. It was a dark brown, barely reaching the floor to make sure no mud would get on it. You tugged on a pair of boots as well, thick ones to protect yourself from anyone drunkenly stepping on your toes. Finally you chose a cloak, enough to cover yourself and just be seen as a stranger passing through. Daeron was dressed similarly in clothes that would not catch attention. It had become a sort of uniform for the two of you on these night time outings.

Daeron knew the way to leave the castle without being caught or spotted by many servants. A few guards still saw you leave, a way of letting your husband know you weren’t being kidnapped and were instead left in fine health. The two of you walked arm and arm, passing a flask that Daeron kept on him between you two. The two of you were thoroughly tipsy by the time you arrived at any of the actual festivities. There were puppet shows and sword swallowers, market stalls and whores selling themselves. Everywhere you turned were dragon banners and seven pointed stars, and drunkards who cared little about you and more about getting their next drink. You and Daeron would be joining them soon.

You found a small tavern, one neither of you had been to before. You found a small table near the wall sitting close together as the room filled up quickly. You sat practically shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the same air, trying to stay away from the drunk men surrounding you. You and Daeron had shed the cloaks you wore, not caring who noticed you as very little people would be looking for the future queen and a prince of the realm. And even if someone did recognize you, most of the citizens of Flea Bottom knew of Daeron’s love for wine and ale, and would assume he dragged his cousin's wife to join him rather than you joining on your own.

The two of you had already gone through one whole bottle of wine and four cups of ale each your own. You could never keep up with Daeron’s drinking, you were already much more drunk than he was. You were singing along to some song that a cobbler and blacksmith started. You got maybe every fifth word right, the rest coming out as a slurred mess. Daeron laughed watching as you stood on shaky legs, moving to join other singers in a sort of dance that only a bunch of drunks could manage.

During all of this no one noticed a white cloak enter the tavern, scanning the room looking for something or someone. The man turned back around and said something to another person outside of the tavern. Another kings guard entered the tavern with a figure standing between him and the first man. The new figure flipped the hood of his cape off of their head, revealing the heir to the throne and your husband, Valarr. The room went quiet except for you who kept singing even with no backing vocals. You twirled around, almost falling over, as you turned to see what caused the disturbance. You gasped, a happy noise, before trying to run to your husband. Your skirt got caught for a second making you stumble, almost falling, before you were able to shakily get to him.

“Husband! I missed you!”

You shouted, making everyone in the room wince. Valarr opened his arms for you to fall into, you did so happily giggling and telling him about the adventure you had been on. He held your waist, watching you with a fond smile. Daeron watched the two of you, hiding in the shadows, hoping that Valarr wouldn’t notice him and he could continue drinking for the night. Unfortunately for him, Valarr always knew that when his wife was drinking, his cousin wasn’t far behind. Valarr found him easily in the crowd and called out,

“Come cousin, let us return to the castle. We wouldn’t want your father to form a search party for you.”

Daeron flinched, feeling eyes all across the room turn towards him. He stood and joined the small party who would return to the castle together. As all of you turned to leave, Valarr pulled out three gold dragons, paying the two of yours tab and giving the rest to the people of the tavern.

“I thank you for celebrating the past king Baelor the blessed. In honor of him, everyone’s drinks will be paid by the crown tonight.”

Cheers went up across the room, calls of good health and a long reign to Valarr and his father. Some wishing blessing of the seven on him, others showing love to the dragon house. Valarr hoped that his little stunt would help cover up anything you and Daeron might have done to cause damage to the name of the crown. Valarr held onto you as the two of you stumbled your way towards the castle, your foot catching on a loose cobblestone, almost falling before Valarr held you up. Anyone walking by could see that Valarr was in love, he looked at you in a way that many of the people of Flea Bottom had never seen. Somewhere along the walk you had gasped and pulled Valarr towards the docks, wishing to see Blackwater Bay at night. He of course couldn’t say no to his lovely wife, allowing you to pull him. Valarr had told one of the kings guard’s to follow the two of you as the other escorted Daeron to the keep.

Valarr let you pull him into the night, towards the docks that wouldn’t have anyone at them at this time. These docks were specifically only for trade going to and from the castle, no random person would be here, And with the celebration going on, no servant or guard either.

You sit on the stairs into the docks, you start untying your boots then slipping them off. You took off your cloak next, folding it and placing it onto the dock. Your next move is to begin unlacing the rough spun dress, but Valarr quickly grabbed your hands stopping you.

“W-what are you doing?!”

“Relax! It’s only us out here anyways!”

“We are not alone! Did you forget about the white cloak with us?!”

You looked around Valarr at said white cloak, the man seemed embarrassed to even be acknowledged. He was blushing, turned slightly away from the two of you.

“Good Ser! Would you do me a favor and turn your back to us?”

The man nodded and turned around with no protest. Valarr gapped at you, you truly did not care of what people will say about you for this action. You then continued slipping off your clothes. In just your shift you turn to your husband and slip your hands under his overcoat. He blushed, turning to look at the man standing behind you two again. The kings guard had done as you said and kept his back to you. Valarr stalled a little, turning back to you with worry in his eyes.

“My love please, this isn’t smart.”

He held your wrists, not tight enough to truly stop you, just tight enough to remind you of his presence. You pouted looking up at him. You raised yourself onto your toes and brought your lips to his. He kissed you back, his body relaxing at the familiar feeling of you and your mouth. You deeped the kiss, gripping harshly to his shirt and pulling it up until it was untucked from his pants. You kept pulling til you got it all the way over his head. He held onto your waist as you bit his lip and pulled away from him with a smirk.

“Come, let’s swim.”

“Swim? We have not brought anything to swim in, beloved”

You began walking towards the water's edge, and slowly slipped the straps of your shift from your shoulders. You looked behind you at Valarr again as the dress fully slipped off of you. His breath caught in his throat. No matter how many times he saw you bare it took his breath away everytime. You turn fully around and reached for him, your hands meeting the top of his pants. You undid the lacing of them as you began scooting them down all the while keeping him distracted watching you instead of what your hands were doing. Once you got them down his thighs he helped you and took them off the rest of the way. He then kicked off his boots. You laughed and ran from him, going back to the water. He chased after you, a wide smile splitting his face. Once you were at mid thigh height water he caught up to you and wrapped his arms around your waist. He picked you up and twirled the two of you around. You let out a shriek of joy, wrapping your arms around his head. He looked up at you like you hung the stars in the sky, and if anyone asked him, he would say you had.

He let you down so your feet were on the ground again, you grabbed onto one of his hands and ran further into water. Valarr followed happily, he’d follow you to his death if it meant you’d smile like that at him. You were deeper now, up to your waist in the water. Valarr scooped you up into his arms in a princess carry, running the two of you further in the water. After a moment, he turned facing the shore again and fell back into the water, getting both of you soaked. You were laughing loudly, holding onto his neck. You kissed him again, a soft fleeting thing. You basked in each other's presence, enjoying the nearness. Here you weren’t a future king and queen, here you were just a husband and wife. You leaned back, letting your body float on the surface of the water. Valarr watched you, watching as your hair reached the water, how your arms moved slightly to keep yourself afloat. He turned to look at the shore again, seeing the king’s guard who was still turned away from you two, his two lives displayed before him. His life filled with love and happiness with his wife, one where his greatest concern would be ensuring she smiled everyday. And the other life, the one of duty, stood on the shore. He was to be the future king of the realm, kings couldn’t worry about their wives in the way he did. The thought brought a sad pit into his stomach, one he knew would never go away.

“My love, we should return to the keep, we’ll catch a cold staging out here much longer.”

Valarr wanted nothing more than to stay here forever, to watch as the water took in your form. How you bared yourself fully to him, unworried about what others would think, only worried about your sweet husband seeing you as you are. You let out a sigh and stood to face him, he smiled sadly before leaning forward to kiss you again. You turned back to the shore and began making your way in, Valarr could see the tiredness seep into your skin. After a moment, when you were further into the shore, Valarr pulled you back via your arm, pulling you into him. He kissed you again, starting soft before claiming more and more of you. You took one of his hands off your waist and pressed it to your stomach, right above your womb.

“My king, I want to give you an heir.”

He shuddered, looking down at his hand. He surged forward claiming your lips again before pulling away one more time.

“Let us return to the Keep and I will give you it.”

He leaned down, wrapping his arms around your thighs and picking you up. You wrapped your legs around him and your arms around his head as he carried you out of the water to return home, to get you back into the bed you two shared and make you a mother.

Thank you for reading! Please let me know if you liked it!

I do not consent for my work to be put into AI

[dearlizzies]

HIJO DE LA LUNA

valarr targaryen x reader

comparing valarr’s beauty to the moon while laying under the stars 𝜗ৎ

You couldn’t see him all day, and his presence haunted you like a ghost. The heat of the day had long since bled out of the red stone of King’s Landing, leaving only the cool breath of night and the silver sprawl of stars above the highest terrace of Maegor’s tower. It was a place few ventured, a forgotten lip of stone overlooking the sleeping city and the distant, black ribbon of the Blackwater bay.

Valarr found you there, exactly where he knew you would be.

You were seated on the edge, legs dangling over the void, head tilted back. He made no sound as he approached, but you felt him, the smell in the air, the warmth that seemed to radiate from his beautiful skin even in the chill.

“You’ll fall” he said quietly, lowering himself to sit beside you.

“Then I’ll fall into the sky” you replied without looking at him. “It seems softer than the ground.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, rare, for him. Valarr was not grim, precisely, but he carried his lineage with him. The firstborn son of the firstborn son. The weight of a crown that had not yet been placed. But here, with only the stars to witness, some of that tension flew from his back.

You turned your gaze from the heavens to his face. In the moonlight, his silver streak looked almost white, a pale river spilling over his brow. His eyes, mismatched colors of old Valyria, reflected the sky above, twin fragments of a forgotten dream.

“Do you know what you remind me of?” you asked.

“A dragon? ”he said, teasingly. “Or perhaps a particularly handsome ruin.”

“The moon” you said, ignoring his self-deprecation.

That startled a genuine blink from him. “The moon is cold. Barren.”

“No” you said softly, shaking your head. “The moon is the most faithful thing in the sky. The sun burns too bright, it devours everything it touches. But the moon… the moon just shines gracefully. It even pulls the tides without ever asking for thanks.”

Valarr was very still. The easy rhythm of his breathing seemed to pause.

You lifted a hand, not touching his cheek, letting your fingers hover along the line of his jaw. “The moon takes the light of a distant sun and makes it gentle enough for lovers to see by. It doesn’t need to be the source to be beautiful.”

He caught your wrist, slowly encircling his fingers around the bone. “And what happens to the moon when the sun rises?” His voice had dropped, rough at the edges.

“It stays” you said simply. “It’s still there. You just can’t see it for a while. But it never leaves.”

He had no words. He looked to fragile, almost like a child. His eyes lit up and his heart was beating fast. No one ever said such beautiful words in his presence, much less about him. A pity it was, that you weren’t his wife.

“You’re going to ruin me” he mumbled with a breath he had been holding.

“We’re both ruined”

The space between you was nothing, a heartbeat, the span of a single unspoken word. He closed it. His lips found yours gently. It was a little wet, a little clumsy, but it was utterly beautiful.

When you parted, his forehead rested against yours, and you could feel the faint flutter of his pulse where your fingers had finally settled against his hand.

“Stay with me” he said, as a few tears started rolling down his cheeks.

It was a view of the old songs and beautiful glass windows from castles. No perfectly sewn tapestry could compare to the moonlight reflecting the tears of the prince in front of you.

You cleaned his tears with your hands, kissing the tip os his nose and leaving a small peck on his lips.

“I’ll stay”

[dreamfyr-e]

v.t. — your prince needs cheering up after a mediocre tourney. (w.858)

“you rode very valiantly.”

valarr sighs, shaking his head — not at you, just dislodging the sweat-slicked hair from his face. “very valiantly,” he mumbles, pulling leather gloves from his fingers. “certainly i did.”

there's resentment in his voice, the sort of self-pity that princes enjoy so much. you humor it, taking the helmet from his hands and setting it on the chiffonier beside the bed. the chambers that lord ashford had provided to his royal guests were very fine.

"you did very well," you assure him, sliding a hand around the back of his neck, pressing your thumb into the tense cord of muscle that runs from jaw to collar. "you had very good form, you carried your lance well."

"you know that my father toys with the order, don't you?" he huffs. "my valiant challengers — every one of them was over forty. he picked undistinguished foes, so that i might appear victorious."

with a little shrug, you lean forward. you're eye level with him, where he leans back against the vanity, sulking up at you.

he's pretty: mismatched doe eyes and messy dark hair.

you can't resist the temptation to reach out, card your fingers through it. you start at his temples, pushing up, away from his face. his hair is sweaty from his helmet, and it sticks straight up. he huffs, clearly unamused, trying to glare at you from under his lashes. it's unconvincing, moreso when his eyes flutter shut in pleasure. you smooth his hair back down, rubbing the back of his neck as he relaxes. his head tips back in surrender to the feeling.

"you still won," you offer gently. "you came out a champion. your father only does it in your best interest. your reputation is important for your future position in the realm."

you work in tandem with him to get the armour off. gloves first, and when his hands are bare he uses them to cradle your jaw and pull you close. his mouth slots against yours in a slow, deliberate kiss.

"what would i do without such staunch support?" valarr murmurs into your mouth. "i would never ride again — i would never again enter into the lists."

you giggle at his dramatics, abandoning the pursuit of disrobing him in favor of wrapping your arms around his neck.

"i'm sorry that i didn't ask for your favour," he continues between kisses.

"lady ashford deserved it," you reply diplomatically. "she is the birthday girl, after all."

he hums, nipping your bottom lip, "but you are my girl.

valarr pulls back, one hand braced on the curve of your waist, as he fumbles with the buckles on his breastplate. he disregards the clatter of it as it falls, full focus back on your mouth as he haphazardly steps over the steel.

"look," he says between kisses, coralling you backwards towards the chaise in the center of the room. "i wanted something of yours while i rode, so i took this." he fishes a thin lace scarf from where it had been tied just below his sword belt.

you gawk, reaching for it. "did you take this from my trunk?'

he grins, pulling it back before you can get a hold of it. "so what if i did?" he pushes you back by your shoulders, onto the sofa, "i couldn't have your favor, i needed something from my lady."

his hands, soft and bare of leather, push your gown up as he spreads your legs to settle between them. "my lover," he whispers, fingers dancing up your thigh, massaging the soft spot where leg becomes hip. "i grow restless waiting to confess my devotion."

"to confess your devotion?" you ask, lacing fingers into his thick hair. holding him in place, guiding him up.

"to the courts," he clarifies, propping himself up on one arm to gaze into your eyes. "i tire of catering to the whims of lords who think that i may perhaps marry their daughters, all while my lady sits in wait."

before humoring whatever you have to say in reply, valarr lowers himself to kiss you again. slow, but intense. his area of expertise.

with very little willing, he slips one hand under your back and eases you atop him.

riding armour is different from that worn in proper battle. with his chestplate left behind, there isn't anything to obstruct your access or poke uncomfortably into you as you straddle his hips.

his hands roam your body, up the back of your thighs, coming to rest against the bottom of your ribcage. he supports you like that, keeping you steady against him.

"terribly improper to sully each other before we're wed," he whispers, encouraging your body downwards. "but i presume that you wish for it as i do."

he watches you nod, one hand coming to your face. he cradles your jaw, thumbing over the line of your lower lip. "beautiful, darling girl," valarr hums. "i promise that we'll be wed as soon as we return to king's landing." he guides your head down, his thumb on your chin easing your mouth open as his lips meet yours.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 lets talk about valarr more !

𖦹 please don't feed my writing to any ai chatbot as source material. i will find you.