divider by: @cafekitsune & @finnegancosmos & @anitalerina
word count: 15.5k
synopsis: In the cold of Winterfell, a southern princess learns that duty is not always a cage—and that sometimes, the heart’s desires align with the good of the realm.
a/n: I definitely went a little overboard with this one—this might be the longest one-shot I’ve written to date. Also, yes, I refer to reader as a lioness and imply her to be more Lannister than Baratheon, even though she is technically a Baratheon by name. We’re just rolling with it because thematically it fit much better for this story.
warnings: Arranged Marriage, Joffrey being Joffrey, Cersei.
The King’s arrival had turned Winterfell on its head.
Trumpets, banners, gold—so much gold. The North had not seen such splendour since the end of the Targaryen dynasty, when Robert Baratheon had taken the throne. Now, it seemed half the realm had come marching behind Robert's royal party.
Gold and crimson, black and stag-marked—southern colours that gleamed far too bright against Winterfell’s muted tones. The northerners looked on, some with curiosity, some with cautious, and a few openly awed as they watched the southern procession wind its way through the gates like a river of colour cutting through snow.
At the head of it rode your father—Robert Baratheon himself—larger than life and twice as loud, his booming laughter rolling over the crowd like thunder. His beard was flecked with frost, his furs heavy and rich, his crown sitting askew in a careless way that had once been considered charming but now looked more like neglect.
You had heard endless stories of his youth—the warrior who had swung a warhammer like the gods themselves had forged it for his hands, the rebel who had taken a throne with fire in his blood and vengeance in his heart. Robert the Usurper. Robert the Conqueror.
But the man who rode before you now was not that legend. His armour strained against the swell of his belly, his face ruddy from drinking. The warhammer had long been replaced by a wine cup and a whore on his lap, the crown he wore weighed by the weight of old victories he refused to let die.
You wondered if even he remembered what it had felt like—to be the man the songs still sang of. Now, he was simply a king grown soft, chasing the ghost of glory through the bottom of his goblet and whoring his way through the street of silk.
As for you, you rode among them, sitting tall despite the cold that seeped through your furs and southern silks. Your father had insisted you come north, and you had insisted on riding atop a horse rather than shut yourself away in the carriage with your mother and younger siblings. It had seemed a small act of defiance then, a gesture of freedom. Now, with the wind biting at your cheeks and Joffrey’s endless complaints filling the air, it felt more like punishment.
He had sneered the entire way north—at the chill, the people, the very land itself. “The dreary, filthy North,” he had called it more than once, his tone dripping with disdain. You had ignored him as best you could, your gaze fixed on the horizon, excited to see a different land from the one you grew up in.
You’d always imagined the North as a wasteland of ice and furs, cold and colourless. But when you finally crossed through Winterfell’s borders, the image shattered.
The ancient stronghold rose before you, proud and formidable, its grey stone walls streaked with frost and history. Smoke curled from the forges, filling the air with the scent of metal and fire. There was movement everywhere—men with weathered faces and proud eyes, women calling out to one another across the yard, and children with flushed cheeks laughing as they chased hounds through the snow-dusted courtyard. It wasn’t lifeless at all. It was rough yes, but nothing like the southerners tried to depict.
You drew your crimson cloak tighter around your shoulders, breath ghosting in the frigid air. The cold bit through your clothes, sharp against your delicate skin, and for a moment you thought you might curse your own stubbornness for refusing the carriage. Yet as the wind swept past you again, crisp and fresh, you realized you didn’t hate it as much as you’d expected to.
It was different from the damp, perfumed warmth of King’s Landing. There, beneath the scent of roses and incense, there was always something else—an undercurrent of rot that no amount of perfume could mask. The palace gleamed with splendour, but beyond its stone halls the small folk suffered, and their misery lingered in the air like smog. Even in the height of summer, the city smelled of decay.
You shivered again from the cold. The North was harsh, yes—but there was purity in that harshness, a raw honesty that stripped everything down to what it truly was.
“Gods, it stinks,” Joffrey muttered beside you as the royal party began to dismount, his nose wrinkling as though the very air offended him.
You fought the urge to roll your eyes. The journey north had nearly rid you of patience for his endless vanity, but you found that ignoring him was the best way to deal with him.
Instead, your gaze drifted to the family lined before the steps of the keep—the Starks of Winterfell. They stood proud and poised, and in perfect unity they bowed towards your father not letting you get a proper look at their faces.
Your father went forward first. For a moment, an uneasy hush fell over the courtyard, as they watched what the King would say. You watched your father approach ordering Lord Stark to stand, but soon after it was all laughter and heavy slaps on the back as he embraced Lord Stark. Your mother followed, cold as a blade at Robert’s side.
One by one, the rest of the Starks straightened, rising from their bows as your gaze swept over them. There were three younger children—two boys and a girl with untamed, curious eyes that seemed to hold more mischief than fear. The smallest of the boys stood by his mother, his expression bright with childlike wonder, while the other, taller but still retaining his boyish excitement stood by his sister.
Beside them stood an older girl, her light auburn hair gleaming softly. She was beautiful, the kind of beauty that was more seen in the south. Her hands were clasped neatly before her, and her smile, though polite, carried a faint nervousness as her gaze flickered toward your brother. You didn’t miss the faint blush that coloured her cheeks.
But it was the eldest son who drew your eyes and held them.
Robb Stark.
Named after your father’s namesake.
He stood beside Lord Stark with a quiet confidence that needed no boasting to be felt. His hair was dark auburn, catching faint hints of red beneath the pale northern sun, and his stance was strong—broad-shouldered, proud.
He was handsome, though not in the soft, polished way of the southern courtiers you’d grown accustomed to seeing. He was well groomed, yes, but the rugged strength beneath that composure could not be hidden. His build spoke of long hours in the yard rather than idle ones in a hall, his bearing of discipline rather than indulgence.
His eyes caught you most of all—grey as a storm over the sea, sharp and intelligent. There was a steadiness to them, a kind of calm that unnerved you, because it was clear they missed nothing.
And they certainly didn’t miss the smirk your brother sent his sister’s way. Robb’s expression didn’t so much as flicker in response, though the faint tightening of his jaw told you he had noticed, the way his sister blushed in response.
Before you could look away, those grey eyes found yours—and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.
You had never been one of those girls who giggled over handsome lords or whispered about courtly love behind lace fans. You had seen enough of men like that—vain, shallow creatures who mistook charm for worth. But something about Robb Stark was different.
Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it, your cheeks warming despite the chill in the air. You fought the sudden, ridiculous urge to look away bashfully, to hide the small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.
It was absurd, really—you didn’t even know him.
For a long, unbroken moment, you didn’t move. It was as though the cold had rooted you in place, your pulse thudding softly in your ears. Then, without warning, Joffrey bumped into you from behind with a muttered curse, snapping the spell cleanly.
You blinked, startled, stepping aside as your brother straightened his cloak with a scoff, clearly annoyed at you. But when you looked back, Robb was already glancing away, his expression unreadable.
The feast that night was as loud and unruly as any your father had ever hosted—though the North’s version of merriment came with more ale and less flattery. The great hall of Winterfell was alive with sound: the crackle of hearth fires, the thunder of mugs striking tables, the low rumble of laughter spilling between bites of roasted meat. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and spice and the faint chill that crept in from the open doors each time a servant hurried through.
You sat near the head of the table, your place beside your mother. You didn’t have to look at her to know her jaw was tight, her patience thinning with each booming laugh from your father as he entertained the woman on his lap.
Robert was in high spirits, which was to say, he was halfway to drunk before the first course had finished. His laughter echoed down the hall, drowning out conversation, spilling more wine than he drank as he talked with Ned.
You kept your gaze low, pretending not to notice the way your mother’s fingers curled around her goblet, white-knuckled.
It wasn’t until your father slammed his mug down on the table that the laughter faltered. The sound reverberated through the hall like a hammer on iron, silencing even the musicians.
“Come, Ned!” he bellowed, a drunken grin on his face, his words slurred with good cheer. “You’ve given me your friendship, your sword, your counsel—but not your blood.”
A murmur rippled through the hall. Lord Stark blinked, confusion flickering across his usually steady face. “Your Grace?”
Robert gestured grandly down the length of the table, his cup sloshing in one hand as he waved toward you. “Your boy, Robb—and my eldest daughter!” he declared, his voice booming with the certainty of a man who had never considered refusal. “A match that will bind the North and the West! A son of Winterfell, a daughter of the Crown—what say you, Ned?”
A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the hall. Some courtiers echoed it too quickly, hoping to placate the King, while others bowed their heads, unwilling to draw notice beneath Robert Baratheon’s good humour.
You froze, your hand tightening around the stem of your goblet as your father’s words sank in. Heat crept up your neck, though the hall suddenly felt very cold. You fought to keep your expression composed, the careful mask of royal composure your mother had drilled into you since childhood. But it was impossible not to feel the weight of every gaze turning toward you and Robb.
Across the table, Robb Stark looked up sharply. His storm-grey eyes found yours through the candlelight, steady but startled. There was no arrogance in his stare, no mockery—only quiet disbelief that mirrored your own.
Even your mother stilled beside you. Cersei’s hand froze on her cup, her knuckles whitening as she turned her gaze toward your father, fury flickering behind the mask of a queen’s poise.
“She’s still young,” your mother said tightly, clearly also not having expected this.
You were a woman grown, long past your first blood. Old enough to bear children, old enough for marriage. In truth, it was a miracle you hadn’t been married off earlier.
Robert waved her off with a booming laugh, already reaching for his cup again. “Old enough for betrothal!” he said, dismissive and delighted all at once. “Robb Stark and my eldest girl—the wolf and the lioness! Gods, they’ll make fine cubs, eh?”
Your pulse thundered in your ears as you stared at the table before you, unable to look at anyone. It was not the proposal itself that shook you—marriage had always been an eventuality, a matter of alliance rather than affection—but the suddenness of it, the way your life had been offered up like cow at an auction.
The hall erupted again — laughter, murmurs, wide eyes. Lord Stark looked caught entirely off guard, his calm composure faltering for perhaps the first time that evening. Your mother’s jaw, meanwhile, was set in stone, her fingers tight around her cup as if she meant to crush it.
Your father, oblivious—or perhaps uncaring—of the discomfort around him, only roared with laughter and turned to the young man in question. “What say you, boy?” Robert grinned at Robb, raising his cup. “A fine match, eh?”
Across the table, Robb Stark straightened, caught between the weight of his father’s silence and the King’s drunken insistence. For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked toward Lord Stark, as though seeking guidance. But Ned Stark’s face, though grave, gave nothing away.
Robb’s jaw set. Slowly, he inclined his head toward the King, his tone careful and measured. “Your Grace honours me,” he said evenly, the calm in his voice belying the tension in his shoulders. “But—”
He didn’t get the chance to finish.
“But nothing!” Robert boomed, slamming his cup down hard enough to spill wine across the table. “The girl’s comely, and from good stock. I’ll hear no objections!”
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You managed to lift your goblet, forcing a polite smile that didn’t reach your eyes, though your stomach twisted with humiliation. This wasn’t how you imagined meeting your future husband—announced like an offering at a feast, your worth reduced to bloodlines and the King’s drunken cheer.
When Robert finally turned his attention elsewhere, clapping Lord Stark on the back with enough force to rattle the tableware, you dared to look up again.
Robb was watching you. His gaze thoughtful rather than cold.
You wondered what he saw—a spoiled lion cub, soft from silk and wine? You wouldn’t have blamed him for thinking it. The Northerners were born of hard work and harder winters; you were born of gold and servants. And yet, as his gaze lingered for a moment longer before turning away, you couldn’t help but hope that perhaps he saw something else too—something more than what your name and colours proclaimed.
As the feast wore on, the laughter grew louder as everyone grew drunker. You tried to endure it—to play your part, to smile when spoken to—but each passing moment made it harder to breathe.
Finally, when no one was looking, you rose from your seat and slipped away.
No one noticed. Your father was deep in his cups, his booming laughter echoing over the music, drowning out any thought of propriety. Your mother had vanished not long before—where, you neither knew nor cared. You only knew that you needed air.
The courtyard was quiet when you stepped into it, the torches guttering in the wind. Winterfell was different at night—vast and solemn. The cold crept beneath your cloak, but it was a welcome feeling compared to the suffocating heat of the feast hall. You drew the fabric tighter around your shoulders and breathed deeply, letting the icy air fill your lungs. For the first time all evening, you felt the weight in your chest begin to ease.
Your boots crunched softly against the packed snow as you wandered without aim, tracing the paths between torchlit walls. Somewhere overhead, a raven cawed, its cry carrying across the night before fading into the wind. You might have turned back then—returned to the warmth and noise, to the safety of your place beside your mother—had it not been for the sound that broke the stillness.
Steel striking wood.
You paused, listening. The sound came again—steady and rhythmic. Curiosity stirred, and you found yourself following it through the shadowed corridors and out into one of the training yards, half-shrouded in darkness.
There, beneath the pale light of the moon, was a young man. He moved with focus, each swing of his wooden practice sword fluid and measured, the sort of precision that spoke of years of learned discipline. He was focused, wholly absorbed in his task, his strikes landed with a steady rhythm against the straw dummy. He was breathing heavy, every breath came in soft, visible clouds, rising and vanishing into the cold air. Despite the chill, he wore only a simple tunic, the thin fabric clinging faintly to his skin with the sheen of exertion.
The soft sound of your steps must have given you away. He turned sharply, the sword rising instinctively in his hand, and you startled, taking an instinctive step back.
“Apologies,” you blurted, raising your hands slightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was only taking a breath from the feast and seem to have lost my way.”
He blinked in surprise, eyes widening as recognition dawned. Even in the low light, you could see the resemblance to Robb Stark—the same sharp lines of the jaw, the same quiet intensity—but his hair was darker, brown like Lord Stark’s, and there was a softness to his gaze that Robb did not possess.
“No, it is I who should apologize, Your Grace,” he said quickly, lowering the sword. “I didn’t expect anyone to be out here.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” you replied, your tone gentle as you stepped closer. “I didn’t expect to find anyone either. I thought I was the only one hiding from the noise.” You hesitated, studying him for a moment. “In fact, I don’t recall seeing you there. I thought all of Lord Stark’s children were present.”
Something flickered across his face at that—an emotion you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tightened slightly, and his eyes dropped to the ground. “I… am not officially considered as such,” he said quietly. “Jon Snow is my name.”
Realization struck, sharp and unbidden. “You’re his bastard,” you said before you could stop yourself. The words slipped free like a breath, unthinking—and the moment they did, you saw the subtle hardening in his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders.
“Apologies,” you said quickly, your voice softening. “I meant no offence.”
He exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. “No need, my lady. I’ve heard worse.”
Something in his tone—half resignation, half acceptance—made your chest tighten.
“Still, it was rude of me to say it as such. It is not a child’s fault for the sins of their father,” you murmured, your voice soft against the quiet of the yard.
He blinked, as though the thought itself surprised him. The training sword in his hand lowered slightly, his fingers flexing around the hilt.
“Most highborn don’t bother to make excuses for bastards,” Jon said at last, the corner of his mouth twisting—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “They just pretend we don’t exist.”
You tilted your head, studying him in the dim light. “Pretending seems to be a southern pastime,” you said dryly. “One I’ve never been very good at.”
That earned you a flicker of amusement—brief, but genuine. The tension in his shoulders eased, his guardedness softening into something closer to curiosity.
“Why are you out here?” he asked after a moment, breaking the silence. “You should be inside—warm, with the rest of them.”
“Yes, I should,” you agreed bitterly, your breath ghosting in the cold. “I should be with everyone, watching my father drink himself into a stupor and insult my mother and his marriage every chance he gets.” You exhaled, a short, humourless laugh escaping you. “Or perhaps I should’ve stayed so I could be congratulated on my upcoming betrothal to your brother.”
Jon’s eyes widened in surprise. “Robb?”
You nodded once, your mouth twisting faintly. “Yes. The King saw it quite fit to announce the offer among everyone in attendance.”
Jon hesitated, his expression unreadable. “You don’t sound very happy about it,” he said finally.
You gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. “Would you be?”
When he didn’t reply, your shoulders lifted in a small shrug as you looked away. “I mean no insult to your brother for my bitterness, but when you’re offered like a broodmare, with no inclination or choice in the matter, I think anyone would find it hard to be happy.” The words left your lips without hesitation. “Sometimes I wish I was a bastard. At least then my father would have ignored me, the way he’s ignored the hundreds of other children he’s sired.”
You hesitated, your voice softening, though the bitterness beneath it remained. “You’re lucky Lord Stark is your father, Jon Snow. At least he seems to care for his children. My father only sees us as bargaining chips—useful when needed, forgotten when not.”
Jon’s grip tightened around the hilt of his training sword until the leather creaked. For a heartbeat, he seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. Then he set the blade aside, the tip sinking soundlessly into the snow.
“That’s… a harsh thing to wish for,” he said quietly. There was no judgment in his tone—only pity and sadness.
You let out a dry, humourless laugh, your breath curling white in the cold. “Harsh, perhaps. But honest.”
Your gaze lifted toward the sky. The stars here seemed closer, brighter—so unlike the smog-veiled heavens of King’s Landing. “I used to think being royal meant freedom,” you murmured. “That power could buy choices. But I grew old enough to realize it only meant I was shackled to duty and expectation higher than most. And for a highborn lady, that will always mean being owned.”
Jon studied you for a moment, the way your voice softened around the edges of those words, as though you’d long since grown tired of speaking them aloud.
“I’ve often thought about what it might mean to be born properly a Stark,” he admitted quietly. “What it would be like to be seen. Properly. To belong somewhere.” His lips curved into a faint, self-mocking smile. “You want to be invisible, and I’d give anything not to be.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The cold bit at your cheeks, but neither of you seemed to mind it. The silence was strangely comfortable—a bubble of calm in a world that demanded too much of both of you.
At last, you broke it. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” you said softly. “How both of us want what the other has. You’d give anything to be acknowledged, and I’d give anything to be forgotten.”
Jon’s lips curved faintly, but there was little amusement in it. “Seems the gods have a sense of humour,” he murmured.
“Or cruelty,” you countered, your gaze turning skyward again. “They give us everything we never asked for and keep what we want just out of reach.”
Jon followed your gaze, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps they think it makes us stronger."
You huffed a quiet laugh, the sound soft in the cold air. “Then the gods have made philosophers of us both.”
Your laughter seemed to ease something in him. The stiffness in his shoulders melted away, and for the first time, the heaviness in his eyes lifted. When he looked at you again, there was no trace of wariness, only quiet understanding.
“You don’t talk like the other highborn ladies I’ve met,” he said finally.
You smiled faintly. “That’s because most of them are taught to be silent. They’re there to be admired, not heard.”
He tilted his head, considering you. “And you?”
“Oh, they tried to teach me the same,” you said, a touch of dry humour in your voice. “But I’m a shit listener.”
Jon blinked, startled at the sound of you cursing—and then, to your surprise, he barked out a laugh. A real laugh. You found yourself laughing along with him.
When his laughter finally faded, he studied you again—longer this time, as though seeing something he hadn’t before. “You know,” he said quietly, “I think Robb might like you.”
Your smile faltered at that, the words cutting through the brief ease between you. The reminder of your betrothal fell heavy in the still air.
Jon seemed to realize it, because his tone softened. “Robb will be good to you,” he said gently. “He won’t see you as a thing to be bartered.”
You looked away, the flickering torchlight catching in your eyes. “Maybe not,” you murmured. “But that doesn’t change what I am. I’m a commodity—something to be given to strengthen the ties between the crown and the North.”
The words hung in the cold air like mist. You exhaled slowly, something between a sigh and a laugh escaping you. “You know,” you said, voice quieter now, “I don’t even know if I’ll be good for him. He looks to be a steady man, one born of duty and hard work. I am a daughter of duty, too, but of a different kind. We both know my southern softness would have no place among the strength you Northerners carry.”
Jon’s brows knit slightly as he studied you. For a moment, he seemed to weigh your words, the silence stretching between you before he finally spoke. “You sell yourself short, my lady. The North doesn’t measure strength by calloused hands or sword arms. We measure it by what a person endures.”
You blinked, surprised by the quiet conviction in his tone. The night air curled white from his breath, and for the first time you noticed how young he really was—a couple years younger than you, but already worn by truths older than his years.
“From what I can see,” he said, his gaze steady on yours, “you’d survive Winterfell just fine.”
The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard. For a moment, you couldn’t quite find your voice. You had expected pity, perhaps—politeness, or some attempt to comfort a princess who had never known real hardship. But there was none of that in his eyes. Only truth. Quiet, unwavering truth.
Something in your chest tightened, a strange ache blooming where defensiveness had lived for so long. You found yourself smiling faintly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You say that now,” you murmured. “You haven’t seen me try to walk on ice.”
Jon’s lips twitched, the ghost of amusement playing there. “The North has a way of humbling everyone. You’d learn.”
That made you laugh—soft and breathy in the chill, the sound a wisp of warmth in the frozen air. “Still,” you said after a moment, “your brother deserves a wife who belongs here. One who doesn’t flinch when the wind bites or stumble over snow. I’m afraid I’ll be more trouble than treasure.”
Jon studied you, the faintest edge of warmth in his eyes. “You might be surprised what the North considers treasure.”
When you finally spoke again, your voice was quieter, more certain. “You’re far too kind, Jon Snow.”
He gave a faint shrug, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly. “Only honest.”
You smiled then—truly smiled—and this time it reached your eyes. The tension you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying began to ease. “Then perhaps that’s why the gods sent me outside tonight,” you murmured. “To find a bit of honesty.”
Jon opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a familiar voice broke through the night.
“Jon.”
Both of you turned. Robb stood a few paces away, his cloak clasped at the throat, the faint firelight spilling from the hall behind him. It caught the edge of his hair, gilding it copper in the dark, and cast a soft glow over the snow-dusted stones at his feet. His gaze shifted between you and Jon, pausing on you for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.
“Princess,” he said at last, his voice steady but gentler than before. “The King will start a hunt if he finds his daughter missing.”
You straightened, the quiet spell of the courtyard breaking as reality swept back in. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” you said softly. “I only needed air.”
Turning to Jon, you dipped your head politely. “It was nice to meet you, Jon.”
He inclined his head in return, that faint half-smile still ghosting his lips. “You as well, Princess.”
With a final, lingering smile, you turned and began the slow walk back toward the hall. “My lord,” you murmured in passing, offering Robb a polite nod as you brushed past him.
Robb hesitated, his mouth parting as if to speak, perhaps to offer his arm or escort you inside. But you were already moving, your crimson cloak trailing behind you like a flicker of fire in the cold.
He watched you go until you disappeared around the corner, the sound of your footsteps fading into the night. Only then did he turn his gaze back to his half brother.
Robb stepped closer, folding his arms across his chest, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You seem to have made quite the impression.”
Jon snorted, bending to retrieve his training sword from where it rested in the snow. “She made one on me first.”
Robb’s brow arched, his tone teasing but edged with curiosity. “Oh? And what’s your judgment then? She seems as prideful as the rest of the lions. You should’ve seen her when the king announced the offer of her hand—it was as if she’d just tasted bad wine.”
Jon shook his head, straightening. “She’s… not like that,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an unexpected defensiveness. “She’s kind, Robb.”
Robb’s smirk faltered in surprise.
Jon went on, his tone steady but earnest. “She knew nothing of the king’s plans. She was caught unawares—same as you. And still, she spoke kindly of you.” He hesitated, then added, “You know what she said? That you deserve better than her. That you should have a northern wife.”
Robb blinked, caught off guard. “She said that?” He frowned slightly, his tone softening as he considered it. “That’s… not what I expected,” he admitted after a moment, the sharp edge of his usual composure dulling. “Most highborn would rather choke than admit weakness.”
Jon huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and almost bitter. “She hides it well enough,” he said. “But it’s there. She’s not proud, Robb—she’s trapped. There’s a difference.”
Robb’s frown deepened, though not from doubt. The words settled somewhere deep, unwelcome in how true they felt. “And she told you all this?” he asked finally.
“Not all,” Jon replied, leaning lightly on the training sword. His voice was steady, deliberate. “But enough to see she’s not like the others in her family. She’s weary of being used as a piece in her father’s game, and yet—she still spoke well of you. I think she would be a good match for you. Maybe better than you think.”
Robb’s head turned sharply at that, his brows lifting in disbelief. “Good for me?” he echoed, half a scoff, half a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Jon, she’s the King’s daughter. A lion in silk. I doubt she’s ever known a day’s true labour in her life. The North would swallow her whole.”
Jon’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile, but his eyes stayed steady. “Maybe,” he allowed. “Or maybe she’d learn to thrive in it.”
Robb exhaled through his nose, running a gloved hand through his hair. The movement was restless, betraying more unease than he intended. “You’ve spoken to her once, Jon.”
“Aye,” Jon agreed, his tone even. “Once. And in that one talk, she showed more heart than half the court’s done in a lifetime. She looked at me—me, a bastard—and saw a person. You think someone with kindness like that wouldn’t make a good lady for Winterfell?”
Robb looked away, jaw tightening as he tried to process that. “I don’t even know what to say to her,” Robb admitted finally, his voice softer, almost reluctant.
Jon smirked faintly, leaning back on his sword. “Try starting with something that isn’t about her family’s reputation.”
That earned a quiet, reluctant laugh from Robb—low, almost self-deprecating. “Seven hells, you make it sound simple.”
“It is,” Jon said, his tone calm, almost knowing. “You’re just too proud to see it. Stop judging her by her name, and you might realize it too.”
Robb didn’t answer, but his silence said enough. His gaze lingered on the snow where your footprints still marked the ground, the faint imprints already fading beneath the falling flakes.
By the next morning, Winterfell was alive with whispers.
Every corridor hummed with speculation, every corner seemed to hold a conversation half-hushed when you entered. Apparently, in you and Robb’s absence, another offer had been made—one that set the Great Hall aflame with rumour. A match between Sansa Stark and Prince Joffrey.
Now, the question that hung over every mouth and meal was simple: who would it be?
Would the King and Lord Stark bind their houses through you and Robb—the eldest daughter and the eldest son—or through their younger, more fitting pair?
No one knew which way the coin would fall.
As you made your way to the morning meal, the murmur of voices followed you like a shadow.
“A Lannister queen in the North?” one servant whispered, their words sharp in the cold air. “The wolves won’t stomach it.”
“Better the Sansa with the prince,” another replied. “Leave the lioness where she belongs.”
You kept your chin high, every inch the King’s daughter despite the sting of their words. The hem of your crimson cloak trailed behind you, its rich colour out of place among the muted greys and browns of Winterfell.
You had grown used to whispers in King’s Landing—court gossip was as common as breath but for some reason hearing the negative gossip about you here couldn’t help but sting. Still, you did what you always did, you kept your chin high and your steps even, even as the truth settled deep inside you. You were unwanted amongst the northerners.
At breakfast, your mother barely looked at you. The flicker of candlelight caught the hard gleam in her eyes. Her hands were perfectly still on the table, though you could see the faint strain in her knuckles—the only sign of the storm simmering beneath the surface.
It was clear both choices displeased her. Yet you couldn’t tell which she detested more: the idea of her daughter bound to the North, far from her control, or her son tied to a wolf’s daughter and forced to share his throne with the Starks.
Across the table, Jaime lounged with his usual easy poise, though his golden eyes flicked toward you, taking in the deep circles around your eyes. “You look as though you haven’t slept,” he murmured.
You forced a small smile, fingers curling around your cup. “Perhaps. I still haven’t gotten used to the northern chill,” You lied.
“Well,” Jaime drawled, tilting his head, “you’ll have to get used to it soon—if you are to become the new Lady Stark.”
His tone was light, teasing, but you could only muster a forced smile finding no amusement in the situation.
“Don’t tease her, Jaime,” came Tyrion’s voice from further down the table. He was already swirling wine in his cup, despite the early hour, his tone dry as ever. “I imagine it’s difficult to rest when your hand may be sold without so much as a whisper of choice in the matter.”
He lifted his eyes to you then, and for a fleeting moment, his usual mockery softened into something resembling sympathy. “My condolences, niece. The North is cold, but at least the Starks have honour—a rare currency in this family.”
Cersei’s head turned sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Enough, Tyrion.”
Tyrion only raised his cup in mock salute, a faint smile curling his mouth. “Merely admiring our king’s fine sense of timing. Nothing warms the heart like watching a daughter offered off between wine and roast boar.”
Your mother’s glare could have frozen the sea, but Tyrion only smiled into his drink.
Marcella, ever the softest of your siblings, shot him a reproachful look. “Sansa seems sweet,” she spoke up softly, almost to herself. “I think she’d make a good queen.”
Joffrey scoffed, rolling his eyes. “She’s a northern savage,” he declared. “If it were up to me, I’d choose a proper southern lady—someone who knows how to behave at court. Still,” he added, smirking, “she is beautiful. A fine thing for our future heirs.”
A quiet scoff escaped you before you could stop it—sharp, disdainful. It cut through the your brother’s laughter like a blade.
Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, his expression hardening, but before he could speak, your mother’s voice filled the silence.
Cersei’s gaze flicked between her children, then landed on you, her voice deceptively soft. “It doesn’t matter what any of you think. The King will make his decision, and we will abide by it.”
Her eyes lingered on you just long enough for the meaning to sink in: you will abide by it.
You inclined your head slightly, every inch the dutiful daughter she demanded you be. But as you lifted your cup, the faint tremor in your hand betrayed the truth.
At that moment, the heavy doors opened, and Robert entered the hall. His steps were uneven, his crown was once again askew, and his cheeks were flushed still bleary from the night of wine and laughter. The sight of him was enough to sour the air.
Cersei’s mouth tightened, the barest flicker of disgust ghosting across her face before she rose in one graceful, practiced motion. “I will take my meal elsewhere,” she said, her voice like ice.
Without another glance, she swept from the room, her gown trailing behind her like a crimson wound, the sound of her heels echoing sharply against the stone until it faded into silence.
You didn’t blame her for her fury—how could you? Your father had humiliated her before half the realm for years, and now he was doing the same with you. But you couldn’t share her anger either.
You’d seen enough of King’s Landing to know that power was never clean, and marriage least of all. Every alliance was a transaction to gain more power. And yet… something about the North unsettled that certainty. There was no pretension here, no gleaming façade to hide behind. The people spoke plainly, worked until their hands were raw, lived and died by loyalty.
It was harsh—but it was honest.
And though you hated the lack of choice forced upon you, though you despised being bartered like coin, there was a small, treacherous part of you that wished your father would choose the match with Robb Stark.
When you slipped away later, wandering through the Godswood, the cold seemed to clear your thoughts. The stillness of the place—the way the wind whispered through the Weirwood branches, the sound of water lapping against ice—was almost kind.
You didn’t realize you weren’t alone until you heard the sharp snap of a branch. Your breath caught, a gasp escaping you as you turned, cloak swirling around your legs.
“Lady Y/N,” Robb greeted, stepping into view, his breath visible in the cold air. A small grey pup padded beside him, tail wagging hesitantly, its eyes bright with curiosity.
“Forgive me,” Robb said, pausing a few paces away. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
You exhaled slowly, the rush of surprise fading. “You didn’t,” you lied softly, though your heart was still racing.
You gave him a small polite smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The pup gave a soft whine and trotted toward you and you knelt to meet the little creature. “And who might this be?”
“Greywind,” Robb replied, a trace of pride threading through his voice. “A Direwolf pup—from the litter my siblings and I saved.”
You reached out your hand, letting the pup sniff your fingers before you gently scratched behind his ear. “Greywind,” you repeated fondly, your tone softening. “A noble name for such a handsome little one.”
The pup leaned into your touch, tail swishing through the snow, his small whines muffled by your gloved fingers. Robb watched in silence, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
He hadn’t expected you to kneel in the snow without hesitation—your silks brushing against frost as though you didn’t care, your expression alight with genuine fondness. Greywind sniffed your hand again, ears perked, tail twitching in excitement before pressing his small head into your palm.
A quiet laugh escaped you then—soft, airy, real. The sound startled Robb more than he cared to admit.
“He’s beautiful,” you murmured, stroking the pup’s fur as he licked at your fingers. “So gentle. I thought Direwolves were meant to be fearsome.”
“They will be,” Robb said, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a faint smile. “He’s only a few moons old. But he’ll grow fast. Father says the bond between a Stark and his wolf runs deep—that they’re born to protect us.”
You looked up at him from where you knelt, your breath clouding in the cold air. The light caught in your eyes then, and something about the way you gazed at him—curious, open, wholly unafraid—made his words falter for just a moment. “That sounds like a rare gift,” you said softly. “The gods don’t give such bonds freely.”
The words lingered between you, carried by the quiet hush of the Godswood. Robb found himself wanting to say something—anything—to keep you speaking, to keep that faint warmth in your voice filling the cold space between you.
“My father says they were born for us,” he said at last, nodding toward Greywind. “To remind the Starks of who we are.”
“And who is that?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, genuine curiosity in your tone.
Robb hesitated, his breath misting in the air. “Honourable,” he said finally. “Loyal. Perhaps too much so.”
You smiled faintly, the expression small but sincere. “Those sound like virtues, my lord.”
“They can be the kind that get men killed,” he replied simply.
Your expression softened, your gaze thoughtful as it lingered on him. “Then I suppose they’re also the kind that make sure your names are passed down through the history books,” you murmured.
He blinked, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in your voice. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was something gentler, fragile and new. Robb was still watching you when you finally rose, brushing the frost from your skirts. Greywind gave a soft whine in protest as your hand left his fur, his small tail sweeping the snow.
“Well, Greywind,” you said, your tone light and warm as your gaze flicked between wolf and man. “It was lovely to meet you both.”
You turned to go, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots. Robb’s eyes followed the sweep of your cloak, deep crimson against the white—like fire cutting through frost. Something in him stirred before he could stop it.
“You don’t need to leave,” he said, his voice careful as if not to startle you away. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I often come to the Godswood to think.” He paused, his mouth twitching faintly. “I didn’t expect that you—or your family—might visit this place.”
You gave a soft huff of laughter, your breath curling white in the cold air. “I doubt my mother would step foot in this place unless the gods themselves demanded it.”
Robb’s lips twitched, amusement flickering there for a moment. “Aye,” he said. “I imagine the Old Gods wouldn’t care much for southern prayers.”
You glanced over your shoulder, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at your lips. “Or southern pride,” you added, voice light but tinged with truth.
Robb’s mouth curved faintly, but his eyes didn’t waver from you. “There’s much being said about us,” he finally brought up after a pause. “More than either of us asked for.”
“I noticed,” you murmured, your gaze lowering to the snow-dusted ground. “Apparently I’m the North’s next great insult—or its salvation, depending on who’s gossiping.”
He hesitated, as though weighing whether to press further. “And what do you think?” he asked finally, his voice quieter now.
You lifted your head, meeting his eyes. “It’s no matter what I think,” you said evenly. “If my father and yours decide on our betrothal, then I will do my duty.”
He studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding once—slowly, as if he understood more than he cared to admit. “My father would say duty is the only thing that keeps us honourable.”
You straightened. “And my mother would say it’s the only thing that keeps us useful,” you replied, your tone steady but tinged with quiet bitterness. “Either way, there’s little choice in what we would want.”
Robb tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours. “And what is it you want, Princess?”
The question caught you off guard. Such a simple thing—and yet, no one had ever asked it before. Not your father, who spoke of alliances and bloodlines as though you were part of his crown’s ledger. Not your mother, who viewed choice as an illusion beneath the weight of duty. Never anyone who cared for you beyond what you represented.
Your breath misted in the cold as you turned your gaze toward the heart tree, its red leaves whispering softly in the wind. “I’m not sure I’d know how to answer that,” you admitted after a moment. “I’ve spent my life doing what’s expected of me. Perhaps what I want…”—you hesitated, voice softening—“…is a chance to know what freedom might be like. To make a choice for myself—not because it’s required, but because it’s mine.”
Robb was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, “You’d fit the North better than you think.”
You glanced back at him, one brow arching, uncertain if he was teasing. “Would I?”
“Aye,” he said, and there was no jest in it. “You value freedom, and you speak plainly. You’d find honesty here, even if it’s cold and rough-edged. And I think you’d hold your own against it.”
Something unguarded flickered in your eyes as you looked at him. You hadn’t expected kindness from him—not the sort that saw beyond your name. “You and your family are kinder than I expected, Lord Stark.”
A small smile touched his lips. “And you,” he said quietly, “are not what I expected at all, Princess.”
You looked back toward the pool of still water, its glassy surface reflecting the red of the Weirwood leaves. Your voice was soft when you finally spoke. “Do you think your father will agree to it?”
Robb was quiet for a long moment, the weight of your question settling in the still air between you. His gaze drifted toward the heart tree, its carved face solemn and knowing. “I think he’ll do what he believes is right for the realm,” he said at last. “As will the King. The rest of us will learn to live with their choices.”
You met his eyes again, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the rest of the world seemed to fall away—the crown, the politics, the heavy chains of your parents’ expectations. In that stillness, you could almost imagine another life. One where you weren’t a Baratheon princess bartered like gold, but a woman who chose her own path. A woman who could stay here, in this quiet northern stronghold, where the air was pure and the people were honest.
You could almost see it—a future with Robb Stark. You’d be lucky, you thought, to be his wife. He wasn’t much older than you, and unlike the courtiers you’d grown up around, there was nothing false in him. He was kind, and honest, and strong in the quiet way that made others listen. If the betrothal fell through, you knew your next match would likely be some aging lord looking to get his hands on a young Highborn wife, grasping for status through your name.
“I should return before someone notices I’ve vanished,” you said at last, drawing your cloak around your shoulders. “If my mother realizes I’ve been out here, she’ll lecture me about the impropriety of frolicking out in the wild.”
Robb’s expression softened. “I won’t keep you, then.” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “But you’re welcome here, whenever you need quiet. The Godswood belongs to no one.”
You paused at that, turning back to him. The smallest smile curved your lips, faint but genuine. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”
“Robb,” he corrected. “I’m not Lord Stark yet—and I think we’re past the point of formalities.”
You held his gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you, before nodding. “I’ll see you later, Robb.”
It was the first time you’d said his name without title. The sound of it on your sweet lips, felt like a spark in his heart, a warmth that lingered long after you turned and walked away.
Days passed, and with each one, Robb found it harder to ignore what Jon had said that night in the training yard.
You weren’t like the rest of your family. There was no sharp vanity in your tone, no hunger for control in your gaze. You carried yourself with quiet poise, yes—but it wasn’t born from arrogance. It was the kind taught through years of lesson. The kind a person learned when they’d been watched all their life, weighed and measured against what they could offer.
He saw it in the way you walked through Winterfell’s courtyards, shoulders straight but eyes watchful, politely enduring the stares and whispers that trailed after you. He saw it when you stopped to help and speak with the servants, asking—not out of idle curiosity, but genuine interest—about life in the North, about the work and the weather and the long winters to come. And when you bent to greet a stablehand’s hound, unbothered by the mud on its fur, Robb found himself watching longer than he should have.
There was kindness in you—a gentleness he hadn’t expected from a lioness raised among vipers. But there was something else, too. A restlessness. A spirit that longed to stretch its wings, to break free of gilded walls and southern expectations you’d grown up with. You looked at the North not with disdain, but with wonder. This was a world you had been raised to look down upon, yet you seemed intent on understanding it.
The decision of your marriage still lingered in the air like the heavy promise of a storm. The King and his father had yet to speak it aloud, though everyone knew it was coming.
Sansa, for her part, had taken to her chambers most evenings, whispering fervently to her mother about her destiny to be beside Prince Joffrey. Robb had passed their door more than once, catching the sound of her pleading voice—soft, desperate—begging Catelyn to convince their father to agree to the match.
Robb tried not to listen. Tried harder not to imagine the kind of life his sister would have beneath that boy’s thumb. He’d seen Joffrey’s nature, clearer than most. Beneath the polished manners and perfect smile lay something rotten. He was spoiled, vain, cruel in ways that made Robb’s skin crawl. He treated the servants as though they were less than human, mocking them when they stumbled, taking pleasure in their punishments when he thought no one else was watching.
The thought of Sansa bound to him—chained to that kind of arrogance and cruelty—made Robb’s stomach twist. No. He would rather sacrifice his own happiness, his own future, than see her endure that fate.
And though he would never say it aloud, the more he thought of it, the clearer it became: if someone had to be bound to the lions, he would rather it be him than his sister.
The truth was… the more time he spent near you, the less that sacrifice felt like one.
He had begun to seek your company without meaning to. Somehow, you always seemed to find your way to the Godswood or the courtyard, and more often than not, Greywind was padding loyally at your side. You had taken to feeding the wolf treats when you thought no one was watching—though Robb had noticed, more than once.
He pretended not to notice the first few times, content just to watch from a distance. You would look around before crouching down in the snow, your crimson silks brushed pale white at the hems, your voice gentle and cooing as you murmured to the growing pup as if he were a child. Greywind, though already larger than most hounds, behaved with startling gentleness around you—ears low, tail wagging, his enormous head nudging against your arm in quiet affection.
You smuggled bits of bread or dried meat from the kitchens, unbothered by the dirt or the snow that clung to your gloves. Each time, Greywind would take the food delicately from your palm, his golden eyes softening before he devoured it, tail thumping against the frozen ground.
Robb decided to approach you finally and the way you startled at being seen nearly made him laugh.
“Does my lord intend to scold me?” you’d asked, voice carefully measured, though your cheeks were pink with embarrassment.
He’d shaken his head, a small smile curving his lips. “Hardly. Greywind seems to like you more than he does most of my kin. I’d be a fool to interfere.”
You’d relaxed then, your shoulders easing as you looked down at the wolf nuzzling your hand, his great head pressing insistently into your palm.
Robb leaned back against the cold stone of the courtyard wall, arms loosely crossed, watching you toss a small scrap of meat into the air for Greywind to catch. The wolf snapped it up easily, rumbling in satisfaction. Robb wasn’t entirely sure when it had begun—these moments, these quiet meetings—but he realized he had come to anticipate them.
He told himself it was curiosity. That he only wished to understand the woman who might one day be his wife. But the truth was simpler—and far more dangerous.
You had begun to occupy the corners of his mind in ways he couldn’t quite name.
You laughed softly as Greywind pawed at your cloak, demanding another treat, and Robb found himself smiling despite the strange tightness that bloomed in his chest. You weren’t the woman he’d imagined when the King had first spoken your name that night at the feast. There was no hauteur in you, no cold detachment born of noble breeding. You were earnest, curious—so very alive.
He’d heard the whispers, of course. That you were a lioness raised in gold, your mother’s beauty and your father’s temper wound into one. But he had seen no cruelty in you, no vanity. Only a quiet grace—and a loneliness that, to his surprise, mirrored his own.
“You know,” you began, brushing snow from your gloves, a hint of playfulness threading through your voice, “you seem to be making a habit of finding me in the cold.”
“Or perhaps,” Robb countered easily, “you’re making a habit of keeping company with my wolf.”
You smiled faintly, eyes glinting. “Then I suppose we’re both guilty.”
Greywind trotted between you then, tail wagging, as though satisfied with the truce. Robb hesitated for a heartbeat, then gestured toward the path that lead to the Godswood. “Walk with me?” he asked, a trace of warmth softening his tone. “Before he decides to eat your hand next.”
You laughed—soft and breathy—before straightening and accepting his arm. Your personal guard fell into step a few paces behind, close enough to preserve propriety but far enough to grant you both the illusion of privacy.
“Does it ever stop snowing here?” you asked after a moment, genuine curiosity lacing your tone.
He grinned, the corners of his mouth lifting boyishly. “Not long enough for us to forget what it feels like.”
You smiled in return—small, unguarded—and for a fleeting heartbeat, it made Robb forget himself.
You brushed a light dusting of snow from your sleeve, still smiling faintly. “I enjoy it here,” you admitted. “The cold is… refreshing.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Robb said, amusement colouring his voice. “Most southerners start complaining before they’ve been here a day.”
“I’ve done enough complaining for a lifetime,” you replied softly. “It doesn’t change much.”
Robb turned his head slightly, studying you. Though your voice remained light, there was something in your eyes—a quiet, familiar sorrow you rarely let show. “You don’t seem the sort who sits idle,” he said carefully. “If you wanted something changed, I think you’d find a way.”
You glanced at him then, the corner of your mouth curving in faint amusement. “You think too highly of me, my lord. My father can move armies with a word. I, however, can’t even choose my own husband.”
The words hung between you, sharper than you meant them to be. Robb’s smile faltered slightly. “If our fathers do decide it,” he said after a pause, his voice low and measured, “I’d hope you’d never feel caged here.”
You tilted your head toward him, curiosity softening your features. “You’d let me speak freely? Do as I wish? Hunt, ride, even argue?”
He grinned, the boyish spark returning to his eyes. “Only if you promise not to best me at any of those.”
That earned him another laugh—brighter this time—and the sound carried through the Godswood, breaking the quiet like sunlight through clouds. Even Greywind perked up, trotting ahead before circling back to brush against your skirts, his tail sweeping the snow.
“You’ve a charming wolf,” you teased, reaching down to scratch his head as he leaned eagerly into your touch. “I think he’s taken a liking to me.”
Robb’s smile deepened before he could stop himself. “I’m beginning to think,” he said quietly, “he has a good choice.”
You looked up at him, surprised, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The words hung between you, fragile and too honest.
Robb cleared his throat and turned away toward the heart tree, his cheeks colouring deeper beneath the cold. “He doesn’t warm to strangers easily, I mean.”
“Of course,” you said softly, though the faint curve of your mouth betrayed your amusement. “I’ll take it as a compliment nonetheless.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. You walked side by side beneath the red canopy of the Godswood, your cloaks brushing with each step, the snow falling in soft, lazy flakes around you.
Finally, you broke the quiet. “Do you ever grow tired of this place?” you asked. “Of duty? Of… being what’s expected?”
He thought for a long while before he answered, his voice low. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But the North doesn’t change for us. It’s not meant to be easy.”
You smiled faintly at that, your gaze sweeping over the snow-dusted branches before landing on the faces carved in the tree. “I think that’s what I like most about this place. In King’s Landing, everything is handed to us with a single word. Here, everyone needs to help to earn their keep, otherwise they answer to the unforgiving winter.”
Robb nodded, thoughtful. “That’s true enough. Up here, a man’s worth is in his work, not his name.”
“And in the South,” you murmured, “it’s the opposite. A man’s name can make him a saint or a monster before he ever opens his mouth.”
Robb’s gaze lingered on you, studying the way your expression shifted as you spoke — not bitter, only weary. “You don’t sound proud of the place you come from.”
You hesitated. “Pride’s a dangerous thing in the capital,” you said at last. “It makes fools of even the clever ones.”
Robb’s steps slowed, his eyes tracing the curve of the heart tree’s pale trunk. “And yet,” he said, voice quieter now, “you don’t strike me as a fool.”
You gave a small laugh. “Then perhaps I’ve fooled you into believing that.” you said lightly.
Robb’s mouth curved faintly. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but I don’t think so. You see too clearly for it. You… question things that most highborn don’t.”
You turned to look at him then—truly look—and found that he was already watching you. The torchlight from the path flickered across his face, catching in his eyes and making them seem even lighter, like a storm breaking at sea.
Something in your chest tightened. You’d spent your life surrounded by men who wanted to possess or impress you, to see only what they wished to believe. But this—this was different. Robb Stark looked at you as though he were trying to understand you.
“Most people see what they want to see,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “You, however, seem to see past that.”
Robb swallowed, the movement subtle, his eyes steady on yours. “Perhaps, I just take the time to look,” he said quietly.
The air between you shifted, the silence thickening like the hush before snowfall. There was something disarming in the way he said it—earnest and unguarded. It slipped past your defences before you could stop it.
“You shouldn’t,” you murmured, though the words lacked conviction. “It’s dangerous to look too closely at people. You might not like what you find.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I think I’d rather see the truth than live blind to it.”
You looked away then, your gaze drifting to the Weirwood’s bleeding face. The red sap glistened like tears frozen mid-fall. “Truth is rarely kind,” you said softly.
“No,” he replied, his voice low and even. “But neither is the North. We endure both just the same.”
For a time, neither of you spoke. Your steps slowed until you stood before the great heart tree, its red leaves whispering faintly in the cold wind. The face carved into its bark watched over you. You stared at it in silence. It was strange, haunting, but somehow… comforting.
“The Old Gods are different from the Seven,” you murmured, studying the weathered lines of the carving. “They don’t promise mercy.”
Robb nodded once. “No,” he agreed quietly. “But they don’t lie either.”
You turned to him, catching the flicker of reverence in his expression as he looked up at the tree. In that moment, he seemed bound to this place in a way you could only envy. “You have faith in them,” you said, your voice softer now.
“I have faith in what endures,” he replied. “The Old Gods don’t demand our prayers. They aren’t cruel or kind. They just watch. Judge us by what we do. We live and die beneath their eyes.”
You considered that, your breath clouding in the air. “Perhaps that’s why your people are so honest,” you said quietly. “You live with eyes always watching.”
He looked at you then, and for the briefest moment, his gaze felt like one of those eyes— seeing far more than you wanted to reveal. You felt warmth bloom under your skin despite the chill.
You dropped your gaze first, brushing a stray snowflake from your glove. “Perhaps I should start praying to them,” you murmured. “The gods in the south have never listened.”
Robb’s voice softened, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “If you do, be careful what you ask for. The Old Gods don’t always give what we want—but they give what we need.”
For a long heartbeat, the only sound was the wind threading through the red leaves above you. Then, in a voice barely louder than the whisper of snow, you asked, “If the gods do will it—this betrothal—would you… resent it?”
Robb was quiet, his breath misting in the cold air as he turned toward you. When he finally spoke, his words were measured, honest. “No,” he said, almost gently. “I don’t think I would.” He took a slow step forward, the snow crunching beneath his boots. “Would you?”
You swallowed, your heart beating far too fast. “I think…” Your voice faltered, softer now, meant only for him. “Perhaps our union wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, after all.”
You took a step closer—closer than propriety would ever allow—but your guard stood a few paces off, mercifully distracted. The world around, you and Robb seemed to vanish.
You looked up at him, meeting his eyes—grey and steady as winter skies. You weren’t sure who leaned in first, only that suddenly you could feel his breath on your lips, the warmth of it sharp against the chill. Your heart pounded, the space between you shrinking until there was almost nothing left.
And then—
Something struck the side of your head with a sharp thud.
You gasped, stumbling back as snow splattered across your cloak. Robb’s hand shot out instinctively, steadying you before you could fall. For a heartbeat, you were too stunned to speak.
Then a young girl’s voice rang out, “Got you, Robb!”
“My lady!” your guard exclaimed, rushing to your side. “Are you hurt?”
You stood frozen for a heartbeat, snow sliding down your cheek and into the collar of your cloak. The chill hit you, sharp enough to draw a startled laugh from your lips—a breathless, unguarded sound that startled even your guard. You lifted a gloved hand to wipe the melting snow away, still half laughing.
“I’m quite alright, ser,” you said, waving him back. “No need to defend me from such a fearsome assault.”
Robb, meanwhile, had already spun toward the voice, a mix of horror and exasperation crossing his features. His cheeks were red—whether from the cold or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell.
“Bloody hells, Arya!” he shouted. “You got the princess!”
From behind a snow-covered tree, a small head of tangled brown hair appeared, her wide eyes flicking between you and her brother as she tried—unsuccessfully—to hide her grin. “I was aiming for you!” Arya protested, brushing snow off her gloves.
Robb shot her a look caught somewhere between disbelief and scolding. “And missed by half a godsdamned courtyard!”
Arya only shrugged, utterly unrepentant. Then her attention turned toward you, and her grin faltered. “Are you—are you all right, princess? I didn’t mean—”
You interrupted her with a laugh, brushing melting flakes from your cloak. “It’s quite all right,” you said, still breathless with amusement. “I’ve survived far worse than snow, I promise you.”
Arya blinked, startled by your good humour. “Really?”
“Really,” you confirmed with a smile, crouching just enough to scoop up a small handful of snow. You shaped it deftly between your gloves, your tone turning playfully curious. “Though I am curious, what exactly is this game?”
Robb frowned, instantly suspicious. “Wait—“
But before he could finish, you let the snowball fly. It struck him squarely in the chest, bursting into a spray of white powder that clung to his cloak and furs.
You lowered your hands delicately, schooling your face into mock innocence. “Did I do it right?” you asked, your tone light, almost teasing.
Arya’s mouth dropped open—and then she burst into delighted laughter.
“Did you see that!” she crowed, spinning to where Jon was standing a few paces behind his sister, his arms crossed and a smirk tugging at his mouth. “She got him!” Arya grinned, looking back to Robb. “You should’ve seen your face!”
Robb wiped the snow from his chest, a mock glare darkening his features as he turned toward you. “You—” he sputtered, disbelief warring with amusement, “you threw that at me?”
You lifted your chin, maintaining your imitation of innocence. “Well,” you said easily, “it was meant for you originally, wasn’t it?”
Jon chuckled. “Seems fair to me, brother.”
“Fair?” Robb scoffed, though he was already crouching, his gloved hands gathering snow with a practiced ease that should have warned you. A mischievous grin—far too much like Arya’s—curved his lips. “I call that an act of war.”
You gasped, taking a hasty step back, your eyes widening. “You wouldn’t dare—”
But he did.
The snowball left his hand in a perfect arc and struck your shoulder with a soft, satisfying thwack. Cold flakes burst across your cloak, sliding down your arm as you let out a shocked laugh.
“You—!” you began, your voice caught between outrage and laughter, brushing snow from your shoulder as he stood there looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Arya whooped from somewhere behind him, already ducking for cover. “Get her, Robb!”
That was all the encouragement you needed. You bent swiftly, scooping up a handful of snow of your own, the grin breaking across your face nothing short of wicked. “You’ve declared war, my lord,” you said, shaping the snow between your palms. “Don’t think I’ll yield easily.”
In a matter of seconds, the solemn Godswood had transformed into a battleground—snowballs flying, laughter echoing through the air. Arya and Jon took sides without hesitation—Arya with Robb, Jon with you—each barking orders like rival commanders on the field.
Your poor guard stood frozen at the edge of the clearing torn between his duty and self-preservation. He looked utterly bewildered, his hand halfway to his sword as if expecting real danger. He ducked as another snowball hurtled his way—Arya’s, if you had to guess—and let out a startled yelp when it exploded across his chest.
You were laughing so hard you could hardly breathe, snow tangled in your hair, your cheeks flushed from the cold and the sheer absurdity of it all. The world felt lighter—freer—than it ever had before. And through the laughter, the flying snow, and the chaos, Robb’s eyes found yours again—bright, warm, and utterly alive.
For that fleeting moment, it didn’t matter who you were or what fate awaited you.
Greywind barked, bounding between you, snapping playfully at the flying snow as though torn between sides. The four of you spilled from the Godswood into the courtyard, boots crunching over the frost. The few onlookers who happened to pass froze where they stood, blinking in disbelief at the sight of the royal princess and the heirs of Winterfell engaged in a full snow-fight.
At one point, Arya came darting after you, laughter bubbling from her lips as she took aim. You turned to flee—just in time to duck. The snowball soared past you in a perfect arc—right toward the open archway of the courtyard steps, where Sansa and Joffrey had just stepped outside.
Sansa shrieked as the snow splattered across her auburn curls, while Joffrey froze mid-step, flakes clinging to his ornate collar. For a heartbeat, everything went still. Then Sansa was already brushing the snow from her hair, her cheeks burning red with fury and embarrassment.
“Arya!” she cried, her voice shrill and scandalized. “What’s wrong with you?!”
Joffrey rounded on Arya, his face twisted in disdain. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he spat, stepping forward. “You dare to attack the prince?”
The playfulness drained from the air as quickly as the colour from Arya’s face.
She stumbled back, torn between defiance and panic. “It—it was an accident!” she stammered. “I didn’t even see you there! I was aiming for Y/N!”
Joffrey’s eyes cut toward you, his expression souring further. “Aiming for her?” he repeated, voice sharp with disbelief. “You dared to throw snow at a princess?”
Arya blinked, realizing too late what she’d just said. “I—”
But Joffrey was already advancing, his hand twitching at his side, his words venomous. “You filthy little savage,” he spat. “Do you have no respect for your betters? I should make you beg for forgiveness—on your knees.”
Before Robb or Jon could react, you were already moving—swift and steady, the remnants of laughter still dying in your throat as you stepped between them.
“That’s enough,” you said firmly, your tone sharper than anyone had ever heard from you.
Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, disbelief flashing across his face. “Enough?” he repeated, the word spat like venom. “You mean to defend her? She hit me!”
“She’s a child,” you interrupted coolly, your tone calm but edged in steel. You stood tall, unflinching despite the prince’s fury. “And we were playing. You’ve been struck by snow, not steel. I think you’ll live.”
A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. Sansa’s eyes went wide with horror. “Y/N—it was her fault!” she blurted, desperate to smooth the tension.
“Princess,” You corrected, “Do not think you can speak to me so familiarly,” you said, your voice dropping, cold as the northern winter. The sharpness of it startled even you. A little of your mother’s ice—your father’s command—cut through the air as you turned your glare on both of them. “She is your sister. And she has done nothing to warrant your insults or your temper.”
Sansa flinched, her face colouring as she bowed her head. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“She attacked us!” Joffrey snapped, indignant fury twisting his features. “It’s an insult!”
You arched a brow, every inch the queen you were born to be. “If you cannot tell the difference between an insult and a game, then perhaps you are the one who should be sent to the nursery.”
His face turned crimson. “Watch your tongue,” he hissed, stepping closer. “I am your prince!”
You didn’t move. “And yet you act like a spoiled child,” you stated calmly. “Titles don’t make men, Joffrey. Actions do.”
He froze, his pride striking like a wounded animal. The sneer crept back onto his lips, his voice thick with spite. “You forget your place, sister. I’ll not be shamed before these northern savages—”
“Enough!” The single word cut through his rant like a blade. “You will hold your tongue,” you said, your composure trembling on the edge of fury. “Or I swear by every god—old and new—you’ll prove yourself as much a fool as people already whisper you are.”
Joffrey’s face went red, then pale, the edges of his mouth curling in silent outrage. “You—”
And that was when his hand moved.
He didn’t think—he simply reacted, his pride goading him further. The sound of his glove cutting through the air was sharp as a whip as he raised his hand to strike you.
But Robb was faster.
He caught Joffrey’s wrist mid-swing, his fingers locking around it with unyielding strength. The motion was so swift, so instinctive, that even the prince seemed stunned by it. Robb’s grip tightened—not enough to harm, but enough to make Joffrey wince.
“You’ll lower your hand,” Robb said, his voice low and edged with danger. “Before you do something very, very stupid.”
Joffrey glared up at him, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “Unhand me,” he spat, his voice cracking with indignation. “You’ve no right—”
Robb’s jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek tightening as his voice cut through the cold air. “You’re standing in my home,” he said evenly, each word heavy with command. “And in my home, you will not lay a hand on a woman—” His voice dropped an octave, a warning growl. “My woman.”
The words had your heart stuttering in your chest. You’d danced around the prospect of marriage, nearly kissed beneath the red leaves of the Godswood, but you’d never let yourself believe he wanted you, not truly. Not beyond duty.
Yet now there was no denying it.
Joffrey froze, his outrage faltering beneath the weight of something colder—fear, maybe, or the realization that Robb Stark was not a man he could cow with titles or threats. Robb was everything Joffrey wasn’t: grounded, unyielding, and very much in control. A man defending what was his.
The courtyard had gone utterly still. The only sound was Greywind’s low, guttural growl rumbling through the air from where he stood protectively by your side. The Direwolf’s hackles stood high, his teeth flashing white as he took a single step forward, golden eyes locked on the prince.
“Call off your beast,” Joffrey spat, his voice cracking, his earlier confidence bleeding into panic.
You stepped closer, your shoulder brushing Robb’s as you met the prince’s glare head-on. “Then perhaps you should return inside, Joffrey,” you said, your tone calm but laced with quiet authority. “Before you embarrass yourself further.”
Joffrey’s mouth twisted, fury flashing in his eyes. For a heartbeat, you thought he might try again—but then his pride faltered beneath the combined weight of Robb’s unflinching stare and Greywind’s low, rumbling growl.
He yanked his arm free, his movements jerky, his voice trembling with barely-contained rage. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed, each word dripping venom.
He turned sharply, cloak snapping behind him as he stormed toward the keep, boots crunching furiously in the snow. Sansa scrambled after him, her face pale and stricken. “Joffrey, wait—please, he didn’t mean—” Her voice faded into the cold as the great doors slammed shut behind them, leaving the courtyard in breathless silence.
The courtyard seemed to exhale all at once. You stood there, heart still pounding, the wind tugging at your cloak.
Robb hadn’t moved either. His hand was still half-raised from where he’d stopped Joffrey, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath his furs. His gaze shifted from the closed doors to you, softening the instant your eyes met.
The world around you was cold, but his voice, when it came, was not.
“Are you all right?” Robb asked quietly. The edge of command that had cut through his tone moments ago was gone, replaced by something gentler—concern, threaded with the faint tremor of leftover anger.
You swallowed, willing your pulse to steady, and nodded. “Yes,” you said softly, exhaling a shaky breath. “Thank you. But I’ve grown up dealing with Joffrey’s tantrums.”
The words came out lighter than you felt, but Robb’s expression didn’t ease. His brow furrowed, his gaze searching your face as if to make certain you spoke the truth.
“No one should have to,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “You shouldn’t have to grow used to that kind of behaviour.”
You gave a faint, humourless smile. “You’ll find that my brother believes the world bends to his will. He’s never been told otherwise. My mother turns a blind eye, my father laughs it off. He was born thinking he could do no wrong.”
Robb’s jaw tightened. “Then perhaps it’s time someone did.”
Despite yourself, a small giggle slipped past your lips—a soft, incredulous sound. “Careful, my lord. If the king hears you’ve manhandled his heir, there might be a war before dinner.”
Robb huffed a quiet laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. The corner of his mouth curved, but before either of you could say more, a small voice broke through the quiet.
“I… I didn’t mean to.”
You turned to find Arya standing a few paces away, Jon protectively beside her. Snow clung to her hair and lashes, her brown eyes wide with guilt. The defiance that had burned so brightly during the snowball fight was gone—what stood before you now was a child afraid she’d started something terrible.
“Hush now, Arya,” you said softly, your tone gentling as you crossed the snow toward her. “There’s no need to fret.”
You knelt so that your eyes met hers, your cloak pooling around you in the snow. “My brother has always been quick to anger,” you murmured, offering her a reassuring smile. The girl’s lip trembled, her gloved hands still clutching a half-formed snowball she’d long forgotten to throw. “It wasn’t your fault. You were only playing, and he—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “He doesn’t yet understand the difference between pride and respect.”
Arya frowned, her brows knitting together. “But he almost struck you,” she said in a small voice, glancing between you and Robb. “Because you wouldn’t let him punish me.”
You met her gaze steadily, your tone quiet but firm. “Because you did nothing wrong,” you said.
The simplicity of your words made Arya blink, her wide eyes searching your face. “You’re not like the other southerners,” she said at last, almost accusingly.
A small laugh escaped you. “Is that a compliment?”
Arya’s mouth curved into a tentative grin. “Maybe.”
You reached out and tapped the tip of her nose lightly, dislodging a flake of snow. “Then I’ll take it as one.”
Robb watched the exchange in silence, his expression softening as he saw Arya’s tension dissolve beneath your words. When you rose to your feet, brushing the snow from your skirts, he found himself smiling without meaning to. His gaze drifted to his brother, who was sending him a knowing look. Jon was right. You didn’t belong to the same world as Joffrey.
As you turned to look at him, a faint smile still lingering on your lips, Robb felt something settle deep in his chest—steady and certain. He didn’t know what the King would decide, nor what his father would say when the time came. But for the first time since the betrothal had been spoken of, he knew what he wanted.
He wanted you to stay.
Not out of duty. Not out of command. But because he’d begun to believe the gods themselves had sent you north—not to bind two houses, but to give him something he hadn’t known he was looking for.
And perhaps, if the gods were listening, they would give him that chance.
The day had come grey and cold, a thin veil of snow drifting lazily through the air. Winterfell’s great hall, usually alive with the hum of conversation and clatter of dishes, was subdued—its vast stone walls echoing only with the low murmur of men awaiting the will of kings and lords.
Robb stood a few paces behind his father, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, every muscle in his body drawn taut. To his right, Lady Catelyn sat composed and still, though the flicker of worry in her eyes betrayed her calm. Beside her, Sansa’s expression was bright but anxious, her fingers twisting the silken folds of her gown in her lap.
Across the hall, the King’s court stood in stark contrast—southern finery gleaming beneath the gray light. Your father slouched in his chair, broad and imposing even in his half-sober state. His laughter, usually loud enough to fill any room, had quieted into a gruff patience he seldom possessed.
Beside him, your mother sat like a statue carved from cold marble. Her green eyes gleamed with restrained disdain. She looked every inch the queen, every inch the lioness who would rather be anywhere else than here in the wolf’s den.
And behind her, you stood.
Your head was bowed in perfect decorum, but Robb noticed the subtle tremor in your hands where they clutched your cloak. You looked small beneath the vaulted ceiling, framed by the grey stone and the banners of House Stark.
Robert’s booming voice filled the hall, breaking the quiet. “Well, Ned,” He said, leaning forward with a weary grin, “we’ve danced around it long enough. You know why I came—to bind our houses once and for all. Lions and wolves, standing together. I’ll not have it wait another day.”
Lord Stark’s expression was calm, thoughtful. “Aye, Your Grace. But the choice must serve both houses—and the children themselves. This isn’t a decision to make lightly.”
Cersei’s lips curved in a thin, cutting smile. “The realm has little patience for northern hesitation, Lord Stark,” she said coolly. “The match must be worthy of the crown.”
Robert waved a hand dismissively. “Gods, woman, enough of your prattle.” His attention swung back to Ned, his heavy voice echoing off the stone. “We’ve two fine children from each house. My son Joffrey, and daughter Y/N. Your son Robb, and daughter Sansa. Either match would serve well enough—but which one, that’s the question.”
The silence that followed seemed to stretch.
Robb felt Sansa’s gaze flick toward their father—wide, pleading, hopeful. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white against the fabric of her gown. She had dreamed of this match since the day the royal party had arrived, and though Robb wanted to look away, he couldn’t.
His father’s voice broke the stillness. “My daughter Sansa is of age to wed the prince, should it please the crown,” he said, the words falling with measured restraint. “It would be a great honour.”
Robb’s stomach twisted. He could feel every word land like a blow. The image rose unbidden in his mind—Sansa’s soft smile turned toward Joffrey, the way her cheeks flushed when he looked her way. She saw a golden prince; Robb saw the cruelty that gleamed behind those same golden eyes. The thought of his sister bound to that… boy made his chest tighten until it was hard to breathe.
But worse still was the image that followed—one he hadn’t meant to summon, one that struck deeper.
He imagined a life without you.
You, standing beside some nameless lord in King’s Landing, your fire dimmed beneath the weight of courtly duty. You, smiling that polite, practiced smile that never reached your eyes. You, turning from him in the Godswood for the last time.
The thought clawed at him, sharp and cold as the northern wind. He had told himself it was folly to think of you—to imagine a future that might never be—but now, as the King’s words echoed through the hall, the possibility of losing you settled in his chest like a stone.
You were duty, yes. But you were also more.
And for the first time, Robb Stark found himself praying—not to the Old Gods for strength or guidance, He prayed that fate would be kind.
He drew a slow breath through his nose, forcing his shoulders to remain square, his expression composed even as his heart hammered in his chest.
Across the hall, Robert leaned back in his chair, his heavy crown tilting slightly as he studied the two families before him. “Aye,” he said after a long pause, nodding once. “A fine match indeed.”
But then his gaze shifted—first to you, then to Robb.
He lingered on the sight of you, head bowed in quiet poise, the faint tremor of unease in the way your fingers tightened around the edge of your cloak. And then his eyes flicked to Robb—rigid, jaw clenched, blue-grey eyes stayed fixed on you.
Robert recognized that look. He’d worn it once himself—long ago, for Lyanna Stark.
His brows drew together, voice lowering into something more thoughtful. “And yet…” he murmured. “There’s sense in matching the North with my daughter, too.”
Your head snapped up, hope flickering across your face as your gaze darted between your father and Robb.
Meanwhile, your mother’s head turned sharply toward your father, her eyes flashing with cold fury. “Your Grace—” she began, her voice tight with warning.
But Robert ignored her. His eyes were on Ned, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Tell me, old friend,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “What does your boy think of the matter?”
The hall went still.
Ned hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly toward his son. “He will obey his duty,” he said at last, his voice even. “Whatever is decided.”
Robert barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “A true Stark answer!” he said, raising his cup in mock salute. “But I didn’t ask for duty, Ned. I asked for thought.”
All eyes turned to Robb.
The hall seemed to narrow around him, every sound fading until all he could hear was the rush of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Slowly, he looked toward his father, seeking steadiness in the familiar lines of his face—but his gaze didn’t linger there.
It found you.
Your gaze met his, uncertain but searching. The flicker of hope shifting something in his chest shifted.
And before he could stop himself, he spoke. “I would marry her.”
The words rang out clear and steady, but his heart hammered behind them. He barely saw the flicker of shock that crossed Ned’s face or the sharp intake of breath from his mother. His eyes were only on you—your parted lips, the way your breath caught, the hesitant, hopeful smile that followed.
A low murmur rippled through the hall like wind through dry leaves. Cersei’s expression hardened, the colour draining from her cheeks, while Sansa made a small, strangled sound beside her mother — disbelief and hurt mingling in her wide blue eyes.
Robert’s brows lifted, amusement flickering across his face. “You would, would you?” he rumbled, leaning back in his chair, half in jest and half in curiosity.
Robb nodded once, never taking his eyes off you as he addressed your father. His voice was calm but resolute. “Aye, I would,” he said. “We remember those who stand with honour, and she has done that since the day she rode through our gates. She’s shown nothing but grace and courage since she arrived. The North could ask for no finer lady—” he hesitated, his breath catching for the briefest moment before he finished, softer, “—I could ask for no finer lady. If it please Your Grace, and with my father’s blessing, I would be proud to call her my wife.”
Your eyes widened slightly, a faint breath slipping from your lips. You could feel every gaze on you, but all you could see was him as he stood tall and unflinching in the centre of the hall, the firelight catching the auburn in his hair and tracing the proud lines of his face. His voice had stilled a room full of royalty and lords, yet his eyes were fixed only on you—as though the rest of the world had fallen away.
“Seven hells, Ned,” Robert said at last, a booming laugh rolling from his chest, breaking the tension like thunder. “You’ve raised yourself a proper lord.” He turned his grin toward Robb, still chuckling. “You sound more like your father than you know.”
Then his gaze shifted to you. “Well, girl? You’ve heard the lad. Would you have the wolf for a husband?”
Your lips parted, your breath trembling in your throat. You had been promised, paraded, spoken of your entire life but never once had anyone spoken for you like this. Never once had you felt as though the choice might truly be your own.
And now, for the first time in your life, you knew exactly what you wanted.
You drew a slow breath, steadying the frantic beat of your heart. “If it please Your Grace,” you said softly, your voice clear despite the thundering in your chest, “then I would.”
The hall erupted — some gasping, some murmuring, a few already clapping — but all of it faded into a distant hum. Robb’s eyes found yours again, and this time, you smiled — small, genuine, and full of something neither of you dared name.
Robert leaned forward, grin wide beneath his beard. “Ned?” he prompted.
For a long moment, Lord Stark said nothing. His gaze rested on his son, studying him—not as a father scrutinizing a boy, but as a man weighing the measure of another and his gaze seemed to soften with pride at what he saw.
Finally, he inclined his head toward the King. “I think the matter is decided, Your Grace.”
Robert roared with laughter, the sound booming off the stone walls. “Good! It’s settled then! The lioness of the South and the wolf of the North!” He lifted his cup high, wine sloshing over the rim. “May the gods damn well bless this union—and grant them strength enough not to tear each other apart!”
The crowd broke into applause, the tension snapping like a bowstring. But amid the noise and the celebration, not all faces shared in the joy.
Cersei rose sharply, her chair scraping against the floor, fury flashing in her green eyes. “You cannot be serious,” she hissed, her words cutting through the laughter. Her gaze burned into Robert’s, venom barely restrained.
“Silence, woman!” Robert bellowed, turning on her with a thunderous glare. “You’ll not sour this moment with your scheming tongue. The matter’s settled.”
Cersei’s lips pressed into a bloodless line as she sat, the gold of her crown catching the firelight like a warning.
And you—your breath trembled, your pulse a storm beneath your skin—but when Robb’s gaze met yours again, something steady flickered there.
A strange, unexpected calm.
Because in that moment, for the first time since the betrothal had been mentioned, you didn’t feel like a pawn in your father’s game.
You felt seen. Not as a daughter of the throne, not as a prize to be bartered, but as yourself.
And across the hall, Robb Stark’s hand curled at his side. For him, too, the weight of duty—the burden of blood, of family, of expectation—suddenly didn’t feel quite so heavy.
Summary: The whole Westeros knew the South and the North rarely made a good match; the South was too polished for the North, and the North was too discourteous for the South.
And yet, sometimes fate liked to play its game in an arranged marriage.
Warnings: Mature themes, blood, usual Game of Thrones violent themes (No Red Wedding), separate and specific warnings will be included in each chapter. MDNI.
Important Notes: Robb and the reader and all their friends are in their 20s, the fic will not follow most of the canon, and the parts from the show will be explained within the fic.
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
ACT I
Chapter 1 : Big plans require unexpected moves.
Chapter 2 : First impressions can make or break a union.
Chapter 3 : Cultural differences can cause misunderstandings.
Chapter 4 : Proceeding with caution is wise in a new environment.
Chapter 5 : Disrespect has consequences.
Chapter 6 : Desire ignites even in the coldest places.
Chapter 7 : What is said and what is meant can be two different things.
Chapter 8 : Southern court training has different strengths from the North.
Chapter 9 : Patience is a skill that can be honed.
Chapter 10 : There’s a time and place for subtlety.
Chapter 11 : There are many different ways to find warmth in the cold.
Chapter 12 : Promises must be made carefully.
Chapter 13 : Courtesy demands good manners.
Chapter 14 : Not every invitation is accepted.
Chapter 15 : One must be careful while mending bridges.
Chapter 16 : It's wise to pay attention to the signs.
Chapter 17 : Words can easily turn into oaths.
Chapter 18 : The heir to the north is raised not only to rule, but also to fight.
Chapter 19 : Honesty is the solution to many issues.
Chapter 20 : Drinks can lead to recklessness.
Chapter 21 : Weddings can be very chaotic.
Chapter 22 : Harvest follows patience.
ACT II
Chapter 23 : After the wedding comes the honeymoon.
Chapter 24 : Ladies of the southern court are taught to wield words like weapons.
Chapter 25 : Saying goodbye to family is always difficult.
Chapter 26 : Honeymoon is made better with gifts.
Chapter 27 : Rumors can cause jealousy.
Chapter 28 : Royal visitors can cause problems.
Chapter 29 : Fears burden the mind.
Chapter 30 : The north and the south have different approaches to nightmares.
Chapter 31 : There are lines that should not be crossed, even in enmity.
Sinopsis: A noble daughter faces a cruel fate as her father considers marrying her to one of her own brothers. Trapped between duty and fear, she finds unexpected solace in Prince Valarr, whose quiet devotion challenges everything she has been taught to accept.
Warnings: Family conflict and emotional abuse, Threats of non-consensual situations (non-graphic), Canon-typical misogyny and power dynamics
WC: 6,400 words approx.
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The importance of your surname had always weighed on you. You felt it in the way people lowered their gaze when you passed, in how the servants whispered your name before bowing. You knew your father would seek an alliance through your marriage—every lord did. That was what the old nursemaids said as they brushed your hair at night. He spent much of the year searching for a suitable match, meeting with lords in his council chamber, studying parchments filled with family trees.
And then it came up.
"Perhaps it would be best for you to marry Daeron or Aerion," Maekar said one afternoon as he drank wine by the hearth. The fire crackled behind him, casting dancing shadows along the stone walls.
You lifted your gaze from the embroidery in your hands. The needle halted midway through the fabric. Of course—they were your brothers. But one of them was practically a drunkard who slipped into brothels every time he visited King’s Landing. Even if your father covered your eyes when Aerion passed by, even if he shut doors and changed the subject, you found out what that meant. You learned what happened when men went there. You knew from the maids whispering in the kitchens, from the looks exchanged by the guards. You knew why the women in the streets wore such lovely yet strange garments—bright silks that shimmered like butterfly wings beneath the sun.
And then there was Aerion.
Aerion, who constantly shoved you against the corridor walls. “Fool,” he would say, his hot breath close to your ear. “Useless. Your role will never be anything more than that of a woman who marries and bears children. What do you think you know of the world?”
You clenched your fists, feeling anger crawl up your throat like a caged animal. How did you know so much? Because you watched. Because you listened. But you never fought back. You had seen him strike servant women more than once. The sound of the blow—sharp, like a branch snapping. The sobs that followed, muffled against the stone floor.
He never touched you. If there was one thing the three brothers knew, it was that your father loved you as much as them. But you were his little princess. The girl who sat on his lap while he told stories of dragons. The one who ran to greet him when he returned from hunting.
But now, knowing there was a possibility you might become Aerion’s wife… A chill ran down your spine. If he were your husband, he could do to you everything he had never been able to as your brother. The mere thought made your bones tremble. You let the embroidery fall onto your lap, your mind returning to the present.
“With Aerion?” Valarr asked quietly.
You were preparing for the journey to Ashford. In the castle courtyard, horses pranced over the stones, their hooves striking impatiently. Stable boys tightened girths while the evening wind stirred the banners.
“He hasn’t decided between Daeron and Aerion yet,” you whispered, adjusting the folds of your riding dress. “Either option will be hell itself, Valarr.”
You glanced toward where your father stood with Prince Baelor. They spoke beside the courtyard fountain, their deep voices blending with the murmur of water. Baelor nodded at something Maekar said, and for a moment, the setting sun illuminated your father’s silver hair.
If there was anyone you could trust besides your little brother Aegon, it was Valarr. He might not have been your blood brother, but he behaved better than your own. When he looked at you, his eyes held none of the coldness you saw in Aerion. There was no mockery in his smile.
“We are ready,” Prince Baelor said as he approached. He smelled of leather and horse, as he always did before a journey. “Daughter, please—your horse will be the white one. Valarr said it is your favorite.”
You nodded, and for the first time that afternoon, a small smile touched your lips. The white horse waited by the gate, flicking its tail patiently. You approached and rested your cheek against its warm neck for a moment, breathing in the scent of hay and sweat.
You mounted with the help of a squire. The leather of the saddle creaked beneath your weight. Slowly, they began to move. Hooves against the road kicked up dust the wind carried into the fields.
Valarr brought his horse alongside yours. You often traveled to Dragonstone to accompany your father, as he was part of the court. That meant you spent more time there. Sometimes with Aegon, who ran through the halls like a little goat. Other times alone, wandering the hanging gardens while the sea crashed against the cliffs below.
All your brothers remained at Gulltown, where your father’s castle stood. The reason was secret, but you knew it well: you always asked to go with him, and he always agreed. His little girl. How could he not?
The road stretched before you, lined with ancient oaks whose leaves whispered secrets to the wind.
Days passed before reaching Ashford. They camped at dusk, when the sun sank behind the hills and the air turned cool. They slept with little discomfort. Then rode again at dawn, when the mist still clung to the valleys like a gray mantle.
At night, by the fire, you felt Valarr’s eyes on you. When you looked up, he quickly turned his gaze elsewhere—toward the flames, the starry sky, anywhere but you. But you caught the blush rising along his neck, a warmth even the shadows could not hide.
One morning, as the horses walked along a path lined with poplars, you turned to him. The air smelled of damp earth and wild rosemary.
“My father said that when we return, they’ll finalize your alliance with Kiera of Tyrosh,” you said without slowing your horse.
Valarr nodded, but took a moment to answer. Too long. As if your words had to pass through a thick fog before reaching him. The morning sun lit half his face, bringing out the blue of one eye while leaving the brown of the other in shadow.
“Yes. Well… my father said we will wait a month so you can get to know her better,” he replied. But as he spoke, he wasn’t looking at the road. He was looking at you.
You didn’t notice. You were distracted, watching clouds gather to the east.
“She’ll have a good man by her side. I’m sure she’ll see how fortunate she is,” you said sincerely, a sigh slipping from your lips. Because it was true. Valarr was good. The kind who held doors, remembered servants’ names, looked people in the eye when he spoke.
“I… I’m not sure about…” Valarr stopped, looking at you. There was something in his eyes you couldn’t name. “The alliance with her,” he finished.
You widened your eyes in surprise.
“Can it be that the heir doubts fulfilling his duties because of someone else?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.
He smiled. For a moment, the seriousness that always surrounded him vanished like morning mist. His shoulders relaxed, and even his horse seemed to notice, flicking its ears back.
“I want to marry for love, not alliance,” he admitted again, but this time his voice held a different tone. As if confessing something forbidden. His eyes lingered on you a moment too long before returning to the road.
“Well, that’s something we cannot do,” you said, looking ahead. There, Aerion was bothering a soldier walking beside the horses, tugging at his cloak, laughing that laugh of his that always sounded like mockery. The soldier lowered his head, enduring in silence. You shook your head. But you weren’t really seeing Aerion. You were seeing Valarr’s eyes. You kept seeing them even when you looked away.
Valarr watched you from the corner of his eye. The wind loosened strands of your braid. He followed them with his gaze, hypnotized, as though momentarily lost in something beyond the landscape.
“If you could choose who to marry, who would it be?” he asked.
Your heart lurched. You gripped the reins tightly. The leather pressed into your palms. You felt the warmth of the horse beneath you, its steady breathing. You kept looking forward, but inside, something shifted. Something warm and frightened all at once.
You thought of him. You thought of Valarr. His hands, the way he laughed softly when something amused him, how he stepped in front of you when Aerion came too close, how he always found an excuse to ride beside you.
Valarr held his breath without realizing it. He waited. His whole body waited, though his face feigned calm.
“Choose? If I could…” you thought. You saw his face. Only his face.
“Damn it!”
Your father’s voice thundered from behind. Everyone stopped. The horses neighed, restless.
“They’re gone. Daeron and Aegon are gone,” Maekar said. His face was red, the veins in his neck standing out like cords. His gaze flicked from you to Aerion, who hadn’t even stopped laughing at his own amusement.
You looked around. Searched among soldiers, pack horses, the mules carrying tents. You urged your horse forward for a better view, Valarr following close behind. There was no trace of them. Only dust, only trees, only the empty road behind.
Your father exploded. He cursed his sons, cursed the day they were born, cursed the Seven and his own blood. Prince Baelor tried to calm him, placing a hand on his shoulder, suggesting men be sent to find them, saying that being near Ashford, they were likely in nearby villages.
You scoffed, air rushing from you.
“Incredible. The idiot with two crumbs of decency just ran off,” you said, watching Aerion carry on as if nothing mattered, now bored of tormenting the soldier, stretching lazily in his saddle like a cat.
Valarr gave you a crooked smile—that smile of his that barely lifted one corner of his mouth, that said everything without words.
“Darling, don’t wander off!” Maekar called, riding up to you. His horse snorted, agitated from the gallop. Your father’s hair was loose and disheveled, his cheeks flushed.
“Stay with Aerion, and don’t leave Prince Valarr’s side either,” he ordered, gesturing toward them with his chin. “If I lose another child, I’ll lose what little sanity I have left.”
You nodded silently. Your father looked at you for a moment, and in his eyes you saw something familiar: fear. Fear of losing you too.
Then he turned his horse and rode off toward where Baelor was organizing the men.
You remained still for a moment, feeling your heartbeat. Then you guided your horse beside Aerion’s—he didn’t even look at you. Valarr positioned himself on your other side, forming a silent barrier between you and the road. And so you rode on.
Your arrival at Ashford was nothing but practiced smiles, good posture, perfectly timed bows. Lords and ladies gathered in the courtyard like colorful flowers, each wanting to be seen, to be remembered. Your father walked among them, chin high, perhaps choosing an alliance while his eyes endlessly searched for Daeron and Aegon. Prince Baelor spoke with Lord Ashford by the fountain, their voices lost in the water’s murmur.
You watched Valarr from across the courtyard. He wore his armor, silver gleaming beneath the afternoon sun, and when your eyes met, he gave you a small smile—one only you knew. You quickly looked away—toward your father, toward the ground, anywhere. But the smile lingered inside you, warm as an ember.
The third night fell over Ashford. The sky turned orange and violet, torches lighting one by one, filling the halls with dancing shadows. In the great hall, lords drank wine by the fire while servants cleared the remains of dinner.
“The filthy rat ran off just like what he is,” Aerion repeated from his seat, looking at you with those eyes that always seemed to measure you. He cracked nuts with his fingers, tossing shells to the floor. “A disgrace, isn’t it? If you want me to comfort you, little sister, I can.”
His dirty hand rested on your hair, stroking it like you were a dog. Disgust rose in your throat like bitter bile.
“You’re disgusting,” you whispered, shoving his hand away. Your voice trembled—not from fear, but rage.
Aerion smiled. That smile that always froze the blood.
“I doubt what I have between my legs will seem disgusting to you when I put it inside you.”
You looked at him with all the revulsion you could muster. Words stuck in your throat, heavy as stones. You wanted to spit at him, claw that smile off his face, cry—but you wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
“Say one more thing and I’ll tell my father,” you said at last, your voice firmer than you felt.
He laughed, hollow and joyless.
“Even so. If that idiot Daeron doesn’t show up, you’ll become my wife. Better start getting used to it.”
The world stilled. The fire crackled somewhere distant, the lords’ laughter sounded far away. His wife. His hands on you. His breath on your face every night. It felt as though the ground opened beneath your feet.
“Cousin!”
Valarr’s voice cut through the air like a blade. You exhaled so deeply it hurt. You turned, and there he was, standing by the doorway, his red cloak draped perfectly, an expression you couldn’t quite read. But his eyes… his eyes looked at Aerion like one looks at vermin.
“Your father agreed I could accompany you to the village with some soldiers,” he said. Though he spoke to you, he didn’t take his eyes off Aerion.
You smiled—a real one, the kind few ever saw.
“Is it necessary to go with soldiers?” Aerion cut in, rising lazily, playing with his dagger, cracking another nut. “Imagine if you were killed, cousin. Considering you don’t know how to fight since your opponents are practically old men… young opponents—shall we call it fear?”
Valarr clenched his jaw. You saw the muscle tighten, his hands curl into fists. You knew how hard it was for him to lose control, how he bit his tongue when provoked. But you also knew what Aerion did to those who defied him.
You stepped in front of Valarr, cutting the tension between them. You smiled at Aerion with all the falseness you could muster.
“Come. There are fragrant plants, Lord Ashford said,” you said, leaving the hall. Your legs trembled, but you didn’t stop.
Valarr cast one last long look at Aerion before following you.
The path to the village was short. Soldiers walked behind, their steps steady on the dry earth. The air smelled of hay and wildflowers, and the first stars began to appear in the violet sky.
That was when it happened. Perhaps neither of you saw it coming—or perhaps it was only a matter of time.
Valarr held the plants you gathered, smiling. His hands were full of stems and leaves, yet he never complained. The soldiers lingered a few steps behind, giving you space among the bushes.
How did it happen?
Perhaps it was when you placed a flower behind his ear with a small smile—a tiny yellow one, ridiculous against his dark hair. He froze, looking at you, and for an instant, the entire world narrowed to his eyes.
If your little brother Aegon had been there, he would have been running through the plants, laughing, hands full of dirt. But Valarr’s presence felt different. Warmer. More dangerous. You felt safe, yes—but also as if you stood at the edge of a cliff.
Valarr set the bag of plants on the ground. He looked around, and when he spotted a large, beautiful lilac flower, he approached it slowly. He plucked it carefully, as though it were fragile—valuable.
He turned to you.
He raised his hand and tucked the flower behind your ear, brushing aside your blonde hair with a gentleness that stole your breath. His skin grazed yours. Warmth. A shiver ran through you.
Yes. It was there.
His hand lingered, adjusting the flower, before slowly sliding down to your cheek. His palm, warm and rough, rested against your skin as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Your breath caught.
The closeness made you remember how often you dreamed of Valarr when you returned home. Nights in your chamber in Gulltown, staring at the ceiling, imagining his hands, his eyes, his mouth. Mornings when you woke with his name on your lips and had to bite your pillow to keep from crying it out.
Your body tensed as his face drew closer. But you didn’t pull away. You wouldn’t.
It just happened.
His lips touched yours. Soft, warm, trembling. Your hands rose to his chest—not to push him away, but to pull him closer. You felt his heart racing beneath your fingers, like a frightened bird. His hand at your waist tightened, drawing you nearer.
You stepped back unconsciously and hit the trunk of a tree. The bark scraped your back through your dress, but you didn’t care.
He pulled away. Just a little. Just enough to look at you.
Both of you were flushed. Both of you were close—so close your breaths mingled, quick, warm, alive.
And then it was you who leaned in. You who kissed him again.
You pressed closer. The kiss turned urgent, hungry, as though you had been waiting for it for years. His hands at your waist held you, anchored you. Yours tangled at his neck, his nape, his hair.
“Prince?”
The soldier’s voice dropped like a stone into still water.
“Princess?”
You pulled apart so quickly you nearly lost your balance. You turned, pretending to gather another plant, another flower—anything. Your hands trembled. Your lips burned.
Valarr licked his lips slowly, as if wanting to keep the taste. He exhaled deeply before speaking.
“We’re coming,” he said. His voice sounded rough, unfamiliar.
The soldier nodded and turned, waiting by the others.
You lingered among the plants a moment longer, looking at the lilac flower still tucked behind your ear. You touched it with your fingertips. It was there. It had happened.
Valarr picked up the bag. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t speak.
And that was when everything worsened.
The question Valarr had asked days before echoed in your mind. If you could choose who to marry. If you could choose.
If your father hadn’t interrupted that morning on the road, you would have said his name.
Valarr.
When you returned to the castle, chaos greeted you like a wave. Servants rushed from one side to the other with lit torches, even though it was not yet fully dark. Guards stood in clusters along the corridors, their deep voices echoing against the stone walls. The air smelled of sweat and fear.
"They found Aegon," some said.
"And Daeron," others added.
You climbed the stairs almost without breathing, lifting the skirts of your dress so as not to trip. Valarr’s footsteps echoed behind you, but you didn’t turn to look at him. You couldn’t. If you did, you would remember the tree, the lilac flower, his lips.
At the top of the stairs, a small figure ran toward you.
"Aegon."
Your little brother threw himself into your arms with such force you nearly fell backward. He was crying. His little face was red and wet, his shoulders trembling as if he were cold, even though the night was warm.
"By the gods, Aegon, how I missed you," you said with a smile, holding him tightly. His scent—childlike, of earth and sweat—filled your senses. You had him. He was safe.
But he didn’t smile. He didn’t pull away to look at you with joy. He only cried, cried against your chest.
"No, sister. It’s my fault," he finally said, his voice barely coming out.
Valarr stepped closer, and you saw his brow furrow with concern. He placed a gentle hand on Aegon’s shoulder, as if afraid to break him.
"What happened? Tell me," you whispered, brushing the damp hair from his forehead.
And Aegon told you.
He told everything, between sobs and stumbling words. He spoke of a large man, one called Duncan, a squire or something like that, who had helped him when some boys were bothering him. He spoke of how the man defended him, how he took him along, how he cared for him. He spoke of a play, of puppets, of people laughing.
And then he spoke of Aerion.
"He hit a woman," Aegon said, his voice breaking. "A woman from the play. Just because she said something he didn’t like. He struck her, sister. In the face. I saw it."
You swallowed. Your stomach churned.
"Ser Duncan stopped him," Aegon continued, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. "He struck him. Aerion. And Daeron… Daeron said Ser Duncan had kidnapped me. Me."
Your father. You imagined him hearing that. His face. His fury.
Aegon looked at you with the saddest eyes you had ever seen in a child.
"They’re furious, sister. They’re going to hold a trial. A trial by seven. They’re going to kill Ser Duncan, and it’s my fault. I went with him, I—"
You embraced him again. So tightly you felt his small bones beneath your arms.
"It’s not your fault," you whispered into his ear. "It’s not your fault, Aegon. You did nothing wrong."
But inside, something froze.
When Aegon had calmed enough, a maid led him away to bathe and eat. You remained still for a moment in the middle of the corridor, listening to your heart beating too fast.
"I’ll speak with my father," you whispered.
You straightened—and then you saw him. Valarr. Standing there, looking at you with those eyes that seemed to see everything. For a moment, the world stilled. You remembered the forest. The tree. The kiss.
You stepped back.
You couldn’t. You had already done too much. Complicated everything too much. Your father was furious, your uncle Baelor surely as well—and you, thinking of kisses while the world fell apart.
You said nothing. You simply lowered your gaze and walked away.
The door to your father’s chamber was ajar. A sliver of yellow light spilled into the dark corridor. You pushed it gently and entered.
Maekar stood by the window, looking outside. He did not turn when you entered. He said nothing. But he knew you. He knew it was you just by the way you breathed.
"You’ve come to beg for that man’s life," he said without looking at you. His voice sounded tired. Old. "Without knowing him. Just because Aegon told you, isn’t that right, little one?"
You stepped forward. Your hands trembled, but you hid them in the folds of your dress.
"We cannot ignore how well we know Aerion, father. We both know that—"
He turned. His eyes—the same ones that once looked at you with pride when you learned to ride—now held something you couldn’t recognize.
"He is my son," he said, cutting your words like a blade. "As much as you are."
You nodded. Because it was true. Because you could not deny it.
"I only want you to know," you said, your voice trembling slightly, "that I do not wish to marry Daeron or Aerion. Leaving me with them is like condemning me to a living death, father. Daeron can barely handle himself, and Aerion is a—"
"You do not decide that, my dear." Your father stepped closer, and for a moment you saw the man who once held you in his lap as a child. "I will make the decision that best suits you. Your brothers would never harm you."
You looked at him.
Truly looked at him.
And for the first time in your life, you saw that he did not understand. That he did not want to understand. That he preferred believing Aerion’s mask rather than the truth you carried every day.
You stepped back. One step. Another. Until your back touched the door.
You left without another word.
Tears flooded your face the moment you crossed the threshold. You ran down the corridor without knowing where you were going—you only wanted to get away, to hide, to disappear.
Your father would never accept calling his sons monsters or wretches, no matter how loudly it was shouted. Even if he saw it. Even if it was carved into their skin.
You wiped your cheeks with your sleeves, but the tears wouldn’t stop.
If that was how he thought… then your father truly intended to marry you to Aerion. Perhaps the certainty with which Aerion had spoken to you in the great hall came from showing another face to your father. Pretending to love you. Pretending to protect you.
A shiver ran through you.
"The skies are clouded."
Valarr’s voice came from behind, soft like a touch you didn’t want but needed. He approached and offered a clean white handkerchief, neatly folded.
You took it. Wiped your eyes, your nose, your cheeks.
"The stars that are usually seen are hidden tonight," he said.
You nodded. You did not speak. You did not look at him.
He noticed. Of course he did. Valarr always noticed everything.
"What happened in the forest…" he began, his voice faltering in a way you had never heard before. "I am willing to—"
"No."
The word left your mouth before you could stop it. You turned to him, and seeing his face—that face you had kissed, dreamed of, wanted—broke your heart into pieces.
"My father… I cannot disobey my father," you whispered. The words tasted like ash. "I will marry one of my brothers. That has been decided."
You lowered your gaze. You could not hold his eyes.
"I’m sorry. I… behaved inappropriately, Prince."
Those words sealed everything.
The silence between you grew so heavy you thought it might crush you. Then his footsteps retreating. Alone. Slow. Each one like a blow to your chest.
You didn’t cry anymore. You couldn’t.
That was your last conversation with Valarr before Prince Baelor’s death.
No one saw it coming. No one expected that trial to end badly. The seven knights. The blows. The clash of swords. And then… silence.
Prince Baelor fell. And the world stopped.
You attended the funeral with your family. All in black, all with solemn faces, all pretending the world remained the same when it did not.
From across the courtyard, you saw Valarr. He looked paler than you remembered. Thinner. His eyes were red from crying, though he was not crying at that moment. He simply stared at his father’s coffin as if he could not believe it was there.
He looked at you.
You looked at him.
And you both looked away at the same time.
Two days passed without speaking. Without crossing paths. Without seeking each other.
As if the kiss in the forest had never happened. As if the lilac flower had never rested behind your ear. As if his lips had never touched yours.
But at night, when you closed your eyes, you felt it. The warmth of his hand on your waist. The beat of his heart beneath your fingers. The taste of his mouth.
And you cried in silence, burying your sobs into the pillow so no one would hear.
You would return home the next day, and your fate would be decided. That night, you remained in your chamber, watching the candle burn down slowly, wondering what kind of life awaited you. On the other side of the castle, while the wind blew cold between Ashford’s towers, things happened that you would never know.
Things that would change everything.
Aerion lay in bed, slowly recovering from the blows Ser Duncan had dealt him. His groans filled the room each time the maid changed the bandages, but you were not there to hear them.
Perhaps it was that your father, weary, had gone to check on his wounded son and in the dark corridor encountered Aegon. His youngest. The one who always watched the world with wide eyes.
Aegon held a dagger. Small, almost a toy—but still a dagger.
"Aegon," Maekar said tiredly. "What are you doing awake? Return to your chamber."
The boy looked at him. And in his eyes was something that chilled your father’s blood.
"Aerion will destroy the only light in our home, father," Aegon whispered, in a voice that did not sound like a child’s. "When my sister marries him, he will break her into pieces. I know it. I have seen it."
Maekar was left speechless. He looked at the dagger, at his young son, and for the first time in a long while, did not know what to say.
Or perhaps it was Ser Duncan who found him and said:
"My lord, Aegon must be kept away from castles. From protocol. From his family. Otherwise, he will end up like Aerion. Or worse. Children learn what they see."
Maekar clenched his fists but did not reply.
Or perhaps it was Valarr.
The prince, who had not eaten in two days, stood before his uncle in the empty hall hours after the funeral. Torches burned low, wood crackled in the hearth, and Baelor’s ghost seemed to linger between them.
Maekar knew his sin. Perhaps it weighed upon him to see Valarr so like his dead brother that he could not meet his gaze.
"We leave tomorrow, Prince," Maekar said, staring at the flames.
"My father died," Valarr replied, his voice steady though slightly trembling. "Before he passed, he told me to guard well the alliances I made. But before any alliance, to choose my heart."
Maekar looked at him, confused.
"Aerion has made repugnant insinuations toward my cousin," Valarr continued. "His intentions, uncle. If she marries one of her brothers, they will destroy her. And she is willing to endure it for you. Because she loves her father."
Maekar sighed. Deep. Tired.
"My daughter and my little Aegon must remain with me," he said. "The North made an alliance proposal for her, and I refused it. A great house. Lands. Power. But I said no."
Valarr looked at him in surprise.
"My daughter… deserves the best," Maekar continued, almost to himself. "If she remains with me, with her brothers, she will lose nothing. She will have the best. I will see that Aerion gives her the best."
Valarr’s jaw tightened.
"The best?" he asked, his voice no longer trembling—now it burned. "Aerion loses his temper easily. His patience is thin. Will he turn a deaf ear when my cousin begs for a fragment of happiness he cannot give? Will he turn her own home into a cage?"
Maekar opened his mouth, but Valarr did not let him speak.
"And who shall I marry her to, then?" Maekar asked when he could. "Any man will take her far away, and if he harms her, I will not be there. I would have to declare war—but my daughter would not be with me. I would lose her the moment she was harmed."
Valarr stepped forward.
"I want to marry her."
Silence fell.
Maekar stared at him, wide-eyed. But before he could speak, Valarr continued:
"I told my father before… before the trial. I confessed that I had fallen in love with her. And he accepted it. He said he would speak with you, that you would discuss it after the trial." He swallowed. "There is no one in this world who loves her as I do. I have loved her for years, uncle. Since we were children. And I have not stopped loving her for a single day."
Maekar hesitated.
He remembered then, days before, when Baelor had finished dinner and casually said: “In the marriage market, perhaps it should remain within the family.”
He had laughed. He hadn’t understood.
Now he did.
"Your father had other plans with—" Maekar began, but stopped.
"We delayed the agreement with Kiera," Valarr said. "My father said the alliance would not proceed until the next month, depending on the council’s decision. You are part of that council. You know I would never harm your daughter."
His voice softened.
"I will give her everything. Jewels, status. She will know no discomfort, no hunger, no illness. I will love her so deeply she will be happy. I will give her everything she needs. But above all, she will be the only woman in my life. I swear it, uncle. Just do not let her marry Aerion."
Valarr’s words struck Maekar like a blow.
He remembered Ser Duncan. Aegon with the dagger. His daughter’s eyes when she said she could not choose.
And he knew the squire was right.
You learned of Maekar’s decision that very night. The candles had nearly burned out, and you sat by the window, watching the moon, when your chamber doors burst open.
Valarr entered.
Your heart leapt. You stood so quickly you nearly stumbled over the chair.
"What are you doing here, Prince?" you whispered, approaching him. You glanced toward the corridor over his shoulder, fearing someone might see. "If they see you here, they will start rumors and—"
He looked at you. And in his eyes was something different. Something you had never seen before.
"Rumors?" he repeated, a small smile forming. "And what would they gain from that? A rumor that Prince Valarr was seen entering the chamber of his future wife?"
It took you a moment to understand.
Two.
Three.
"What?"
He smiled—fully, brightly.
"Your father agreed to our marriage."
Your eyes widened. The words did not quite sink in.
"We leave tomorrow," Valarr continued, stepping closer. "You will not go to his castle. You will go to Dragonstone with me. After leaving Aerion at Gulltown, he will come to formalize it before the court."
You shook your head. Tears already burned behind your eyes.
"If you felt obligated because of what happened in the forest, don’t—" you began, but he took your hands in his.
They were warm. Steady.
"I have always dreamed of marrying you," he said softly. "I told my brother. I confessed it because I feared disappointing my father. But wanting to marry you since I was seven? Too soon, don’t you think? I did not want to frighten you."
He smiled, and your tears fell.
"So I waited. Slowly. Years, waiting." He squeezed your hands. "I no longer have my father. But when I spoke to him, he told me he had always thought of you. That he would have agreed immediately, if not for the trial."
His hand released one of yours to touch your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear.
"Please. Accept the love I have long wished to give you."
You could not hold back anymore.
You threw yourself into him, holding him with all your strength. You buried your face in his neck, feeling his warmth, his scent, his heart beating as fast as yours. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you as though you were the most precious thing in the world.
"When you asked who I would choose to marry," you whispered against his skin, "it would be you."
You pulled back slightly to look into his eyes.
"There is no one in this world I have fallen in love with as I have with you."
At last, you could kiss him without fear.
Without hiding. Without wondering who might see. Without the weight of the future crushing you.
You smiled against his lips, then embraced him again, laughing and crying at once.
The next day, you both departed with the others.
In Ashford’s courtyard, the horses waited. The morning sun warmed the gray stone, and birds sang in the nearby trees. Your father stood beside his horse, and when he saw you descend the stairs hand in hand with Valarr, he nodded.
Just once. A small tilt of his head.
But in his eyes, you saw something you had not seen since you were a child: peace.
You approached him. He embraced you tightly, as he used to when you were small and plagued by nightmares. He kissed your forehead.
"Take care of her," he said to Valarr over your shoulder.
"For all my life," Valarr replied.
And then you departed.
Your family took the road toward Gulltown. You turned instead toward Dragonstone with Valarr, riding side by side beneath the sun, feeling that at last the air tasted different. Cleaner. Freer.
Your father remained watching as you rode away, until you became nothing more than a point on the horizon. Then he turned his horse and looked at his family: Aerion, still bitter in his saddle; Daeron, lost in his own thoughts; and the empty space where Aegon should have been.
Because Aegon had left.
With Maekar’s permission, with Ser Duncan. Far from castles, from protocols, from a family that might have broken him. To live a different life.
Maekar sighed and spurred his horse forward.
He had made many poor decisions in his life. But that morning, watching his daughter ride toward a happy future, he knew he had made the right one.
Years passed.
You married Valarr at Dragonstone, with the sea crashing against the cliffs below and the stone dragon watching from above. Your father traveled for the wedding, and when he saw you dressed in white, flowers in your hair and a smile that would not fade, he felt his chest fill with something he could not name.
Then came the children.
First a girl, with Valarr’s blue and brown eyes and your blonde hair. Then another, more mischievous, who ran through the halls as Aegon once did. Then two boys—twins—who fought and loved each other with equal intensity.
And your father came whenever he could.
He would arrive at Dragonstone, and the children would run to greet him, shouting, “Grandfather! Grandfather!” while he laughed and lifted them into his arms one by one.
He would look at you—with your family, with your husband who still looked at you as though you were newly in love, with your children healthy and happy, with your round belly once again because yes, another was on the way.
And he would smile.
There was no doubt.
He had made the best decision of his life.
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This work is mine. Copying or translating this fic is strictly prohibited. Any issue must be notified directly to me. Thank you.
Pairing: Prince Valarr Targaryen x Reader ( referred to as 'You')
Part 1: You Must Be His Nursemaid | Part 2: A Prince and A Dragon | Part 3: Where Princes, Ladies, Lords, and Knights Gathered in Candlelight | Part 4: Silk Morning, Bloodied Field | Part 5: Where the Dragon Set Its Gaze and Bared Its Teeth
Word Count: ~3.8k
Summary:
Upon arriving at Ashford Keep, Ser Duncan the Tall mistakes Prince Valarr’s wife — and mother of his child — for a nursemaid. Unfortunately for him, he says so aloud. Fortunately for him, she does not take offence.
The gates of Ashford Keep yawned wide beneath a hard blue autumn sky, their ancient towers hung with green-and-gold banners snapping briskly in the wind. House Ashford’s sigil: the white sun-and-chevron blazing against orange, caught the light with almost defiant brilliance, as though determined to rival the dragon standards riding in beneath it. Our Sun Shines Bright, their words declared, and on this day it seemed they meant to prove it.
Within the walls, the courtyard churned like a struck anthill. Destriers stamped and snorted steam into the crisp air; grooms darted between iron-shod hooves with half-swallowed curses; squires wrestled bridles with reddened faces and thinning patience. Petals scattered ceremoniously across the cobbles were ground at once into damp streaks of colour. The air carried leather, sweat, hot iron, and the faint sweetness of harvested grain drifting from the fields beyond the walls.
Trumpets split the noise clean in two.
The herald’s voice rang from the steps of the great hall, gilded with importance. “Our Lord of Ashford humbly welcomes the great and honourable Baelor Targaryen — firstborn son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, and heir to the Iron Throne.”
Fanfare burst bright and brazen. Heads bowed in rippling waves as the Targaryen procession rode through the gate beneath a forest of dragon banners.
Prince Baelor inclined his head with effortless grace, silver hair catching the sunlight like polished steel. “My Lord of Ashford.”
“It is a great honour to receive Your Grace,” Lord Ashford replied, bowing so low that the hem of his cloak brushed stone.
“It is a great honour to be received.”
Behind Baelor rode Prince Maekar, stern and hawk-eyed. And behind him—
Chaos.
“Boy, stop gaping. See to my horse.”
Prince Aerion’s voice cracked sharp as a riding whip.
Duncan the Tall, who had been staring perhaps a heartbeat too long at all that silver hair and dragon silk, started as if boards had clapped beside his ears. “I’m—I’m not a stable boy, m’lord.”
Aerion’s pale gaze skimmed over him with cool disdain. “Not clever enough?”
Dunk flushed the colour of boiled crab. “Um…”
“Well, if you cannot manage horses,” Aerion continued lazily, “fetch me wine and a pretty wench.”
“Oh, m’lord pardons. I’m—I’m no serving man either. I have—I have the honour to be a knight.”
Aerion inspected him as one might a bruised apple at market. “Oh. Well… knighthood has fallen on sad days.”
A horse screamed then, high and wild, hooves striking sparks from stone. The crowd jolted back in a flurry of silk and curses.
“Move away!”
Dunk was already moving. “Whoa, whoa. Easy now.” He caught the bridle with steady hands, his voice lowering to something patient and sure. “It’s all right, girl. Too many people. I don’t much like it either.”
The mare shuddered, then eased beneath his touch.
“I agree,” Dunk murmured when she nickered.
“The pretty ones are always temperamental,” came a dry voice behind him.
“He meant the princeling, not the palfrey,” another added.
Dunk turned to find two white cloaks observing him with faint amusement.
“Ser Roland Crakehall,” said the broader knight. “And this is my sworn brother, Ser Donnel of Duskendale. Gods, boy. Do you ride your horse into battle, or does it ride you?”
Donnel grinned. “Forgive Ser Roland. It is not often he must look up to cast his eyes down.”
“Yes, yes, I am quite the rascal,” Roland muttered. “Now tell me, Ser Duncan — is there a proper place to shit around here?”
Dunk blinked. “Uh… not really, no.”
“A man of such birth has never deigned to disturb his arsehole with hay.”
“He’ll deign before the week is out,” Dunk said with a crooked grin.
“Where are you from, man? You do not smell House-bred.”
“No place, really.” Dunk shrugged. “No place at all.”
“I know it. My family’s from there.”
“You’re not a Darklyn of Duskendale?”
“We were crabbers. Far back as it goes.”
“Ser Donnel?” someone called sharply, and Donnel’s attention snapped away at once.
Dunk hesitated. “May I ask, ser… how the son of a crabber came to wear white?”
“Same way we became crabbers,” Donnel tossed over his shoulder as he strode off, cloak stirring.
“‘Same way we became—’” Dunk began, too earnest to know when to stop.
“Are you Baelor Targaryen?” a stable hand called from behind him, dry as dust.
“N-no.”
“Then move the fuck out of the way.”
“Right. Yes. Of course. Apologies.”
As Dunk shuffled aside, the yard shifted again in waves of armour and colour. Near the far wall, away from trumpet and spectacle, something quieter unfolded — subtle enough that most missed it entirely.
While princes traded pleasantries and lords measured bows, you withdrew without fuss — the practiced retreat of one long accustomed to spectacle and tired of its glare. Your gown of deep red silk brushed the cobbles, edged in black, simple but finely made. At your throat hung a slender gold chain bearing a small three-headed dragon — a gift commissioned by King Daeron himself after you bore Prince Valarr’s son and heir. The metal caught the light softly: modest to the unknowing, unmistakable to those who understood.
You crouched, skirts pooling around you, and brought yourself level with the boy at your side.
He bore his father’s stubborn jaw and serious mouth, though his hair was brown and wind-tossed rather than silver. Through it ran a single white streak at the center of his brow like a slash of moonlight. One eye blue, one brown. Both were far too solemn for six.
“Hello, sweet boy,” you murmured, straightening his collar. “It is rather stuffy with all these people, is it not?” Your thumb brushed his cheek, gentle even amidst iron and noise. “Father is busy with his duties. Shall we say goodbye to the horses for the day?”
He nodded gravely, fingers curling around your dragon pendant so the tiny heads knocked softly together.
Inside the wagon behind you, half-hidden in shadow, his dragon lay curled upon wool and straw. Not large — not yet — but real. Breathing. The only dragon hatched for House Targaryen since the last had died in smoke and memory. Its existence drew reverence and unease in equal measure. Even now, glances flicked toward the wagon, quick and hungry, like crows daring not to land too near.
Your son looked back toward it, frowning faintly.
“Just a moment,” you said gently.
You lifted him into the carriage and laid a steadying palm against the dragon’s flank, feeling muscle twitch beneath warm scales. “Easy. Too many eyes today.” It was meant as much for your son as for the creature.
Arms circled your waist from behind.
Valarr.
He leaned in to peer at the small beast as your son declared, “Papa, he wants to get out.”
Valarr smiled, brushing the boy’s hair aside and pressing a kiss to his temple. He followed it with a soft caress of your cheek and a brief, careful kiss to your lips — restrained, public, but unmistakably his. “We must complete the arrival procession first,” he said. “Your rooms are ready. We will move our things inside shortly.”
“We were going to say goodbye to the horses,” your son added. “Will you join us?”
“Not yet.” Valarr’s hand remained warm at your waist. “I must stand with your grandfather and speak to Lord Ashford. But go on. I am sure they would enjoy kind company after such a journey.”
Even from across the yard, Valarr’s gaze returned once, brief but certain, as if he counted wife, child, and dragon all in a single glance and found none of them worth leaving unwatched for long.
The family turned toward the dragon, who quieted beneath the touch of his young rider and his future king. Valarr watched a moment longer and murmured, almost to himself, “He grows.”
It was not the princes or the banners that caught Dunk’s eye, but the small island of calm at the edge of the yard: a woman, a boy, and a wagon; everyone else seemed careful not to crowd too closely.
He saw you there, sleeves brushed with straw, posture unpretentious, your hand steady on horse and child alike. No crown. No glittering display. Only a woman soothing a beast and a boy speaking to it as though it were a friend.
The boy pressed his cheek to a stallion’s neck. “We shall not ride you into the lists,” he informed it solemnly. “You are far too noble for that.”
Dunk drifted closer before he quite realized it. “Aye?” he said, bending slightly in an effort to meet the boy on fairer terms, though he could not truly manage it. “And what if the horse disagrees, young lord?”
The boy looked up, stern enough to shame a bannerman twice his age. “Horses do not disagree with me.”
Dunk’s brows rose. “Is that so? Gods, I’ve been doing it wrong all my life. Mine disagrees every morning.”
A pause — long and deliberate — and then the boy’s mouth twitched. A small, stubborn giggle escaped before he could swallow it.
You watched Dunk with faint amusement, curious what sort of man could be so tall and so plainly earnest. Men often mistook composure for harmlessness. It was an error you had seen before. He mistook your look for encouragement.
“You must be the Targaryen prince’s nursemaid,” he said warmly. “And doing a fine job of it.”
Your son stiffened at once. “I am not in need of nursing.”
Dunk chuckled. “Aye, I can see that. You’ve the look of a boy who’d bite anyone who tried.”
“I would,” the boy said promptly.
“Good. That is a proper princeling.”
The boy’s shoulders drew back a fraction, pleased despite himself.
“But princes tend to wander,” Dunk went on. “Best keep one close. They’re like cats, I’ve heard.”
“I am not a cat.”
“Worse,” Dunk said solemnly. “Cats don’t have men with swords following them.”
Your son’s gaze flicked briefly toward the wagon.
“Mine does,” he replied.
Dunk nodded. “Sensible. I’ve always said a prince ought to have men with swords.”
“I have a dragon,” the boy added. He said it without boast or wonder, as though stating something as ordinary as the weather, which somehow made it far more convincing.
Dunk blinked, then laughed warmly. “A dragon? Aye, of course. And I’ve a castle back in No Place.”
“It is real,” the boy said, unimpressed.
“Of course it is. What’s it called?”
“He does not like strangers.”
“That’s wise of him,” Dunk replied. “I don’t much like strangers either. Especially not those with teeth.”
The boy’s laughter slipped free again, brighter this time.
“And does your dragon breathe fire?” Dunk asked. “Or smoke and disappointment, like certain lords I’ve met?”
Your son snorted.
You bit the inside of your cheek to hide your smile. There was something disarming about this enormous knight who did not yet understand he stood beside the future of his house and spoke of dragons as though they were kittens.
“And you are?” you asked gently.
“Ser Duncan the Tall.” He bowed, awkward but sincere. “At your service.”
“You are very tall,” your son observed.
“It seems to be my chief accomplishment.”
A smile tugged at your lips.
“Most fine ladies would scream at a startled horse,” Dunk continued, gesturing to the mare you had calmed. “Then the horse would scream, and then I would scream, and the whole yard would think dragons had come to eat us.”
Your son’s giggle rang clear this time — quick and bright as a coin striking stone — and he clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes shining despite his effort at dignity.
“And you believe I am his nursemaid?” you asked, your voice smooth as silk drawn over steel.
“Well,” Dunk said earnestly, “you’ve the look of someone sensible. Court ladies look like they’d faint at the sight of dung. You look like you’d clean it up and scold the horse for good measure.”
For a heartbeat, you went very still.
Dunk — blissfully unaware that he had just wandered to the edge of a cliff — smiled at you like a pleased fool who thought he had paid a compliment.
It was low and bright and utterly unoffended, the sound cutting clean through the din of hooves and harness. A few nearby heads turned without knowing why.
Behind you, a white cloak shifted.
Ser Roland approached with the quiet inevitability of gathering storm clouds.
“Your Grace,” he said evenly.
The words struck like a dropped blade.
Dunk went rigid, as though ice had been poured down his spine.
Your Grace.
Your son’s fingers tightened in yours — small, sudden, firm — and in the space of a single breath, Dunk’s mind seemed to race backward over every word he had spoken. Nursemaid. Cats. Smoke and disappointment. Dragons. All of it lined up before him like men awaiting sentence.
You inclined your head, serene. “It is nothing. Ser Duncan was offering his… assessment.”
Your smile softened deliberately, saving him from the edge he had not known he stood upon. Your son studied Dunk with grave deliberation, as though weighing whether this enormous knight was dangerous or merely foolish. After a moment, having decided the latter, he gave a small, dignified wave — a princeling’s mercy.
Dunk’s face burned scarlet.
“M’lady,” he managed, bowing far deeper this time. “I meant no disrespect.”
“None taken, Ser Duncan,” you replied, amusement still warming your tone. “It is refreshing to be thought sensible.”
The kindness in your words was the only plank between him and drowning.
He bowed again, too fast, too deep, nearly folding himself in half. You saw it then — the dawning horror in him. Not fear of swords. Not fear of pain. But the realization that he had been joking with a woman who, in another life, might have seen his head mounted above the gate and thought little of it.
Beside you, your son looked up at him with all the solemnity he wore like armour.
And then he failed at it completely.
His mouth twitched. His mismatched eyes shone. He pressed his lips together so tightly his cheeks puffed, as if he could trap the laughter inside by force of will alone.
Ser Roland stepped nearer, white cloak settling about him like snowfall. He did not raise his voice. He did not scowl. He merely looked at Dunk as though measuring the precise distance between foolishness and death.
Dunk, who had faced charging horses and hunger and a hundred small humiliations, went as still as a penitent before judgment.
You felt the laugh rise again, sharp and bright, but habit swallowed it. A princess did not snort in front of the Kingsguard, no matter how dearly she wished to. Your shoulders lifted faintly with the effort, and your fingers tightened around your son’s hand — not to still him, but to steady yourself.
Your son, of course, interpreted this as encouragement.
A slight sound escaped him — half-hiccup, half-choked breath — that might have passed for a cough if anyone had been charitable.
Dunk shot the boy a desperate look. Please. Don’t.
The boy’s eyes widened with innocent delight, as if he had been handed a new toy.
Dunk’s face had gone beyond red now — it bordered on catastrophic. “M-my lady,” he stammered, the words strangled nearly beyond recognition. “I— I truly meant no—”
“I know,” you said gently, rescuing him once more. You did not let your smile sharpen. “Thank you for speaking with us, Ser Duncan. You were… a welcome distraction.”
Ser Roland’s gaze flicked to you — brief, restrained, the faintest question in it — and you met it with the calm that had been forged into you by necessity. Whatever you were within, you were composed without. That was the rule. That was survival.
Dunk bobbed another bow, puppet-like. “Yes. Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady.”
Roland looked back at him.
It was not a threatening look.
It was worse.
It was the look a seasoned knight gives a nervous squire who has somehow wandered into a lord’s solar and knocked over a cask of Arbor gold.
What, it said without words, in seven hells are you doing?
Dunk straightened an inch, caught the look on Ser Roland’s face, and immediately reconsidered the wisdom of straightening at all. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides — too large, too empty — as though he might somehow fold himself into something smaller if he only tried hard enough.
You gave your son’s shoulder the gentlest squeeze. “Come,” you murmured, the word meant for him but also for the moment itself — to move it along before it sprouted teeth.
You turned, silk whispering over stone, and the courtyard’s roar rushed back in at once. Iron rang against iron. Voices rose and collided. Horses stamped and snorted, leather creaked, and banners cracked overhead like sails straining in a stiff wind. Somewhere, a stable boy shouted for a room. The world did not care that Ser Duncan the Tall had nearly perished of embarrassment beside a wagon.
Your son behaved for precisely three steps.
Then, just as Dunk’s heart might have begun beating normally again, the boy twisted at the waist and called back with bright, sudden curiosity, “Ser Duncan!”
Dunk flinched as if his name were another whipcrack. “Y-yes, my… young lord?”
“Are you jousting?” the boy demanded, as though this were the most pressing matter in all the Seven Kingdoms.
Dunk blinked. His eyes flicked to Roland, then to you, then back to the child. “I—” He swallowed. “Aye. I hope to, my—” Every title in his mind seemed suddenly treacherous. “My prince.”
Your son nodded once, solemn as a war council. “Good,” he said. “I will watch.”
Dunk’s expression did something helpless and painfully sincere. He looked like a man being offered honour when what he truly feared was public humiliation. “Ah,” he managed. “That’s… very kind.”
“I like tall knights,” the boy added thoughtfully, as if this were a strategic consideration.
Dunk attempted a smile that wavered between pride and impending doom. “Then I’m likely to be your favourite, I suppose.”
Your son beamed.
Dunk leaned forward a little, lowering his voice as though they were conspirators instead of spectacle. “But you shouldn’t… ah… You shouldn’t cheer too loudly, Your—” He faltered again. “You might frighten my horse.”
Roland’s mouth did not move, but something in the quiet set of his jaw suggested he was enjoying this far more than any sworn brother ought.
“Your horse is frightened of me?” your son asked, eyes wide with delighted offence.
“No,” Dunk lied at once. “Of course not. My horse is frightened of… noise. And lances. And… glory.”
The boy stared at him for a breath, then giggled outright — bright and boyish and utterly unsuited to a yard thick with steel.
You drew in a careful breath, shoulders tightening as you wrestled your own laughter back into something dignified. “Come, sweet boy,” you said, attempting sternness and failing slightly at the edges. “Leave Ser Duncan to prepare.”
“I am preparing,” Dunk insisted quickly, as though he might be examined on the matter. “I always prepare.”
“By talking?” your son asked, delighted beyond reason.
Dunk nodded with grave conviction. "Talking is important. That’s how you convince the horse not to throw you.”
As though the world itself had chosen to join the jest, a low sound rose from within the wagon behind you.
It was not the sound of any horse in Ashford’s stables.
It was rough. Throaty. A rumble that seemed to carry weight in the air itself. Squires paused and looked toward the carriage, and Ashford knights and maids visibly stiffened.
Dunk froze mid-bow, eyes widening. His head turned slowly toward the wagon, like a man staring at a dark doorway he has just heard breathe.
“What—” he began, voice cracking. “What was that?”
You did not look back. Your hand remained steady on your son’s shoulder, as though deep, resonant growls were as commonplace as squeaking wheels or unruly squires. “Oh,” you said lightly, silk-smooth. “He’s just tired.”
Dunk blinked. “He?”
Your son, still grinning, answered with perfect innocence. “My dragon.”
Dunk laughed at once — too loud, too quick — the laugh of a man who assumes a child is inventing marvels. “Ha! Aye, right. Your dragon. Of course.”
The wagon shifted faintly. Straw rustled. Something heavy resettled.
This time, Ser Roland’s gaze moved before the sound had entirely faded. His eyes sharpened at once, not in surprise but in recognition, as though he had spent long enough near danger to know exactly what shape this one wore. A moment later, the look was gone, smoothed back into Kingsguard composure.
Dunk noticed none of it.
He only shook his head fondly at the boy. “Well,” he said warmly, “your dragon has better manners than most knights I’ve met. Growls once, then goes back to sleep. Doesn’t even demand wine.”
Your son’s laughter burst free again, delighted and bright.
You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted copper.
Because if you laughed now — here, in front of Roland, with half the court already measuring your son’s shadow for greatness — you might never stop.
That evening, when the yard had emptied of banners and bluster, and only the soft scuff of hooves and the low breath of horses lingered in the dark, Dunk sat cross-legged beside his mare, brushing her down by lanternlight. The glow turned her flank to warm bronze, leaving the rest of the world in shadow.
Across from him, Egg sat on an overturned bucket, polishing a helm with far more concentration than the task required.
“I made a bit of a fool of myself today,” Dunk said at last.
Egg did not look up. “That narrows it down very little, ser. Go on.”
Dunk scratched at his jaw. “Met a princeling. Mismatched eyes. Serious as a septon at a funeral. Claimed he had a dragon.” He huffed softly. “Nice lad. Said he’d watch me joust.”
“That sounds harmless enough.”
Dunk hesitated, brushing slowly. “Might’ve called his mother a nursemaid.”
Egg’s polishing stopped.
Very slowly, he lifted his head.
“Did anyone,” he asked carefully, “call her Your Grace?”
“…Yes.”
Egg closed his eyes.
“What was she wearing?”
“Red silk,” Dunk said, trying to remember. “Simple. Had a dragon pendant at her throat.”
Egg opened his eyes again and stared at him with something approaching despair. “Ser. That was Prince Valarr’s wife. Mother of his son.”
Dunk blinked once.
“And if the boy says he has a dragon,” Egg went on flatly, “then he has a dragon.”
Dunk blinked again.
Egg leaned forward, lowering his voice as though the very straw might carry it. “Please tell me you did not say any of this in front of her husband.”
Dunk shifted. “Well.”
“Ser.”
“He might’ve been nearby.”
Egg made a small, strangled noise and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Ser. Prince Valarr is not known for enjoying insults directed at his wife.”
“I didn’t insult her!” Dunk protested at once. “I said she looked sensible!”
Egg’s hand slid down his face.
Dunk paused.
“…Might’ve called his mother a nursemaid.”
Egg very slowly looked up at him.
“Ser.”
“It was complimentary.”
“Ser.”
Egg covered his face fully now. “Seven save us.”
Silence settled between them, broken only by the steady rasp of brush through horsehair.
After a long moment, Dunk cleared his throat.
“…The dragon didn’t eat me,” he offered weakly.
Egg lowered his hands and fixed him with a long, measuring stare.
“Be grateful,” he said at last, “that the prince did not.”
Valarr Targaryen x highborn!reader (no physical description, no specific house mentioned, pick one for yourselves:))
Summary: based on this idea. Valarr has always been a shy, slightly socially inept child, until you held out your hand and invited him to join your friend group. The friendship blooms, and soon you are each other's dearest, closest childhood companions. So close, in fact, that you write a pact to marry each other when you both come of age. When your family has to leave King's Landing, you are devastated, but Valarr promises you will meet again when you are to wed each other. A decade later, you've forgotten about the contract, but he never has.
Tags/Tropes: fluff! so much fluff! friends to lovers, he falls first and hardest, innocent love, betrothal, getting together, reader is oblivious and confused until the end, childhood friends, yearning Valarr, YEARN pretty boy yearn!, Baelor has a headache. Reader has supportive parents (don't we all wish for some)
Rating: sfw (surprise!)
My Masterlist
Spinoff
WC: 12,960 words (whoopsie)
-
197 AC
The godswood of the Red Keep was full of children's laughter. In the wake of the Blackfyre rebellion, it had been nigh on two and a half years since these woods had been graced with the pitter-patter of the small feet, loud giggles which cut through the air like little wind chimes and screams of joy. Now the little lordlings and ladies were returning to the godswood, the heavy air of solemnity lifted like a veil.
Valarr was sitting by the heart tree, watching the other children play come-into-my-castle from afar. The little prince, at the green age of five, was fidgeting with the hem of his cloak with his little fingers, wishing but not daring to join the game. In the middle of the makeshift castle's borders made out of tree branches, Aelor, his cousin, only one year his elder, was holding his court with a young courtier's son. Around them were at least five to six other children of the Keep, shouting out their suggestions for the identity of the lord of the keep.
"By your weirwood tree you can only be the bannerman of Lord Tully, Lord Bracken, and so I name you" the courtier's little son declared at the entrance of the tree branch castle, his chest puffed out in certainty.
"Wrong! You're all wrong! I'm Lord Blackwood, you've got my sigil all wrong!" Aelor shouted out in joy, pumping his small fist in the air. "Nobody made it into my castle, so I win!"
Valarr got up from his observation post, and timidly made his way to the group of boys. "Aelor, I want to play too! Maester Archibald said that I am good at learning the sigils of the houses! I could.."
"No! we don't have any more space for you, cousin. We're already too many, and we have to wait so long for our turns", Aelor cut him off. The older princeling had never liked his cousin very much, his mismatched blue and brown eyes and dark brown hair with only a thin streak of white drawing a stark contrast to the rest of his family. Everybody else had beautiful, pure Valyrian features, even Daeron, with his dirty blond hair, had lilac eyes to show for it. But Valarr looked half Dornish in coloring, just like his father Baelor.
Rejection stung Valarr's eyes, especially after he had been so brave to get up and ask the boys to play. As he nodded and made his way back to the heart tree, a small hand reached out and tapped on his shoulder.
When he turned around, he came face to face with you, a child of five as well. You had a big grin on your face, eyes twinkling and hair done up in a braided bun. He knew you from sight; your mother had come to court recently with her household to be a companion to his own mother.
"Our mothers are friends, so we should be friends too!" You exclaimed, "we're going to play monsters and maidens, you should come play with us!" You waved at the little group of boys and girls a few yards away.
Valarr blushed at the invitation. Though children were careless beings, they weren't careless enough to disregard the obvious hierarchy between their parents. Other children were taught to be weary of accidentally injuring him; leading to most other children's hesitation to let him into their games. He felt addressed to as an ordinary child for the first time in his short life, and grasped his first chance at a friendship with his small hands.
When he nodded, you took his hand in yours, shouted out to your little group of friends that he "absolutely had to join" your game of chase, and hurriedly dragged him to them.
That was the first time he felt the warm, fluttering happiness of making a new, genuine friend.
-
The two of you were fast friends, soon inseparable apart from the hours spent at your lessons. When Valarr would curl up with a fairytale book under a tree, his little head already adept with his letters, — maesters called him a prodigy, already reading deftly and starting to write at only five years of age — you'd sprawl out next to him and listen to him read aloud stories of knights, dragons, and princesses, begging him to read you another story before supper time.
"If we were the princess and the knight from the story, we could befriend the dragon instead of killing it", you mumbled, staring into the leaves rustling in the wind and the bright blue sky. "We could fly away on the dragon, and build a castle on a beautiful unknown island. Then we'd only eat cake, and go on adventures all the time, just the three of us. We'd declare the island ours, and nobody else would be allowed in!"
Valarr's cheeks flushed pink. You liked it when he blushed, you liked pink and you liked Valarr's squishy cheeks. It was a great combination.
"But what about our families?" He lightly furrowed his brows. Valarr, the little prince, so dutiful even at his age.
"They could still visit us whenever they want, they're family!" You exclaimed, as if it were the most obvious thing. "
"That'd be nice", he smiled lightly, already envisioning your castle on an island far away, living with you, the dragon, and flying into the sunset for adventures. He'd be your knight, and you'd be his princess. He'd protect you from any harm and get you all the lemon cakes you wanted.
-
198AC
When Valarr's sixth nameday came, you'd already been six for three whole moon cycles. By then, you'd been inseparable for almost a year, and your families were completely endeared by your friendship.
You woke up on the morrow buzzing from excitement for your closest companion's nameday, almost vibrating in your chair while breaking your fast with your parents. They suggested visiting prince Baelor's family in his solar to bring his son's nameday present, a richly ornamented saddle for his pony.
"Val's six too now, Papa!" you cried out, elated by the thought of being allowed to visit your friend so early in the morning.
"That he is, my darling." His eyes crinkled in amusement.
You were practically bouncing at the door when your household set out from your quarters, running laps around your parents and the servants holding the big boxes meant for Valarr.
When your little procession arrived at the door to Baelor's solar, you sprinted off and nimbly sidestepped the poor startled guards at the door, slamming the doors open and running into the room to see your dearest friend.
"Happy nameday Val!" You shouted, running straight at him and hugging him tightly. The impact of the hug was great enough that he let out a huff of breath, and only croaked out a quiet "thank you".
Behind you, your parents were apologizing to the guards, but entered nevertheless, and greeted the heir's household. The servants placed the present boxes on the floor next to the gift pile, then bowed before they took their leave.
"My prince, dear Jena, we wish you the jolliest and the most blessed nameday for Prince Valarr. Apologies for our daughter's.. overflowing enthusiasm to congratulate his little grace."
Your mother dipped into a curtsy, your father bowing his head next to her.
Lady Jena was having none of the formalities, and crossed the room in quick steps to greet your mother in a hug, followed by two quick kisses on the cheeks. "Thank you dearly to you both for the lovely wishes, that is most kind. And Baelor and I are simply delighted that our children are so close. It endears me greatly that their friendship blooms so wonderfully just as ours did."
As the adults sat on the high-backed lounge chairs while discussing their mysterious adult topics, Valarr and you padded to his little brother's crib, Valarr wishing to introduce you to his mere 3-weeks old baby brother.
"He's so little", you wondered at his impossibly tiny hands and feet.
"His name is Matarys", Valarr introduced him. "Matarys, this here is my closest friend", he then solemnly introduced you to the little newborn, stating your given and family name to the babe as if the little one was to remember it. You giggled at that, and played with his tiny hands.
"Do you want to open the gifts with me?" Valarr suggested, pointing at the high-piled boxes of gifts from the entire realm.
You nodded, excited at unboxing the undoubtedly beautiful gifts sent to the crown prince. You both sat at the foot of the pile cross-legged, delightedly tearing through the delicate packaging and revealing the gifts one by one. There was a bejeweled dagger, the pommel a golden dragon's head with a ruby in its open maw. The next was a beautifully stitched doublet, made of shining black and red velvet. Your parents had gifted him a gilded saddle and bridle for his pony, with jeweled ornaments running through the straps. As you looked through the gifts, your face suddenly saddened.
"What's the matter?" Valarr asked, his brows scrunching up in concern.
"I have nothing to gift you", you murmured, fidgeting with your necklace. It was a beautiful piece of jewelry, commissioned by Baelor at Valarr's insistent demand for your last nameday. The fine golden chain held a delicate pendant, a huge blue topaz placed between winding golden vines. Baelor and Jena had gifted you a matching diadem, a masterpiece done by the castle's goldsmith with blue topaz ornaments and swirling ivy vines.
You regretted not insisting on getting Valarr a present of your own, especially as he had asked his father to commission something so beautiful just for you three moons ago.
Valarr's eyebrows furrowed further in confusion. "Your parents have already gifted me the saddle and bridle. You have no need to get me anything else."
You shook your head, and looked down to the floor in consideration. Then, you took your ring off your pointer finger, a small signet ring with your family's sigil on it.
"I can't take that, that's yours." Valarr shook his head.
"Yes you can, I have many other rings just like this", you insisted as you took his left hand and slid it onto his index finger. "Also, now you have a gift from just me, which is good because best friends should always gift each other things for their namedays."
Valarr flushed while looking down at the signet ring on his finger. He didn't protest any longer, and smiled shyly at you. "Thank you. I'll always cherish it." He nodded solemnly with his promise.
-
The idea came to you on a sunny day, when you were both lying in the grass, out of breath from the last game of monster and maiden. The two of you hadn't found any other children to join you, already tied up in other games or off to lessons. But playing only with Valarr was just as fun as with the whole group, his company always beat everybody else's. You were looking up at the clouds, thinking that they looked like a herd of sheep traversing a light blue lake.
Suddenly, the idea struck you.
“Val,” you called, and he hummed in response. “We should get married when we’re older.”
Valarr craned his neck around to look at you, confusion evident in his eyes.
“If we get married, we could be best friends like this forever. Just the two of us. Septa Marya says that one day, my parents will choose a Lord for me to marry, but I don’t want to do that. We could get married like the princess and the knight, and go on adventures and see all the wonders of the world, just like in the books.” You continued, still gazing up at the clouds, imagining the scenes from the fairytales.
He smiled at that. “Yes, we should get married when we’re grownups. I’d like that. Maybe we could go sailing across the Jade Sea, I read that dragons still live there.”
You sat up, looking at him with a smile blooming on your face. "Do you promise?"
"I promise. On my honor." He sat up to face you, and nodded with all the solemness a six-year-old could muster.
"We need a more serious promise, though. In case we grow up and forget", you added.
Valarr hummed in agreement. "We could make a vow on the parchment. My father says that a promise made with words on a parchment and then sealed with the houses' sigils are binding."
"If you want to promise to marry me", he quickly added, a soft blush creeping onto his cheeks. "You don't have to if you don't want to." But your excitement took momentum, and now you were consumed by the idea of being being friends with Valarr forever, without having to marry someone you did not know yet like Septa Marya said.
"I want to! We have to get married Val, it would be the best thing! But," you hesitated. "How would we make the vow? I don't know how that works."
"I saw a parchment at my father's desk once, I can do it. We just need the big signet rings from our fathers so we can stamp the seals." Val's so smart, you marveled.
The rest of the afternoon was spent with barely muffled giggles and whispers, as Valarr fleshed out the plan for you. Your little conspiracy meeting only ended when your mothers each sent their maidservants to collect you for supper; even then, you parted ways reluctantly.
-
The two of you chose to execute your plan while the royal party was on a hunting trip. Your parents would be absent from the Keep, with only the servants and the maester or septa to keep watch over you. It would almost be too easy to sneak off to the Hand's Tower and draft an unofficial official document.
After your parents left the Keep, you sneaked to the solar, where your father's velvet doublet hung over the backrest of a chaise longue. When you patted the breast pocket, where you had observed your father tucking his ring into before riding off to the kingswood, you felt the distinct shape of a ring under your fingers. You pocketed it, evading the eyes of the maidservants. Your heart was beating wildly, and your hands were visibly shaking, never having taken something without leave before like this. But as you left the quarters and headed to the Hand's Tower, the anxiety soon turned into giddiness, with your giggles barely contained as you skipped the rest of the way.
This felt like an adventure, a mischief, something that the characters from your fairytale did. Like a princess outwitting a cruel witch to reverse her spells, or a young knight valiantly stealing the keys to the cage of his one true love from the pockets of the sleeping giant. If you did this, you and Valarr could live out your dreams, never separated from each other's closest friend.
Valarr was waiting at the door to his father's office, grinning widely from excitement. The door was not locked by some wonder, and the two of you padded in to the chamber, giggling and whispering from the excitement.
Valarr sat himself in his father's chair, sitting at the edge of the seat so he'd be able to reach over the desk, while you sprawled across the armchair, facing him. "So what now?" You asked. Valarr was the mastermind of this plan, after all.
"Now, we write our promises", Valarr stated, pulling out a blank parchment from a drawer after searching for a moment. He dipped the quill into the inkpot, and his hand hovered over the empty page. "Are you sure?" He raised his eyebrows, seeking your confirmation with a hint of insecurity in his expression.
"Yes! It's going to be amazing when we're married, Val. We're going to go see the God's Eye, the Free Cities, and have a baker make us treats for all meals!" You giggled. Your priorities clearly stood with confectioneries tied to the royal sugar bakers.
"I am going to need to see how to write just like father does", Valarr mumbled as he pulled a parchment with a filled out contract — something about orchards and taxes — and a seal stamped upon it, "it needs to look official."
Valarr was now leaning over the parchment, occasionally looking over to his reference material, brows furrowed in concentration so the letters would be as orderly as possible. While he painstakingly wrote down the short terms of your contract, you were busy lying across the armchair and listing off all the things you wanted to do once you were grown up. Valarr, ever the polite, dutiful child, made sure to answer with "yes, sure" or a hum every once in a while.
Once done, he pushed the parchment filled with his over to you, his eyes shining with pride. On top of the parchment, both of your names were listed with the proper titles.
This contract made on the fifth day of the seventh moon of year 198 AC between the two persons parties above binds them in a pact of marriage. When Prince Valarr Targaryen comes of age, the two parties will be joined in marriage in a sacred ceremony.
This agreement is valid in every corcom circumstance without conditions.
Signed,
Valarr Targaryen
Your lips moved quietly as you sounded the words out, stumbling over the unfamiliar words. Next to his signature at the bottom of the page, the three-headed dragon of his house was drawn clumsily.
"What is a pact?" You lifted your eyes, curious over the new word.
"I think it means an agreement or promise in official words, I found it on this sheet." Valarr waved the other parchment in his hand.
You nodded, quietly marveling at Valarr's adeptness with his letters. The words sounded so grown-up; and the penmanship was slightly wonky, but to you, it looked as perfect as any.
"Now what?" You asked again.
"Now you sign your name, and we stamp it. Then, it's official." Valarr said solemnly.
You took the quill from his hand, and dipped it into the ink. Septa Marya had shown you how to write your name, stating that it was the foremost essential thing a lady should be able to spell. You pressed the tip of the quill into the page, your effort evident in your furrowed brows and tongue sticking out of the side of your mouth. The signature was a little shaky, but it was written in your best cursive, and you reckoned Septa Marya would be proud. Then, you scribbled the sigil of your house next to it, just as Valarr had.
"Now, we stamp", Valarr put the stick of black wax on the desk, a slight look of hesitation on his face. He was afraid of burning his fingers on it, but he tried his best not to show it as he heated it against the candlelight and dripped the wax onto the parchment. He then rummaged through the drawers and produced a big signet ring, which he then pressed into the wax. You watched, fascinated by the process. Elated, you took the wax from his hand and copied his actions, stamping your father's signet ring into the little pool of wax.
"Is it done? Is it official now?" You bounced in your seat, clapping your hands from excitement while Valarr blew on the seals to dry them.
"It is", he confirmed once he was done, a big grin splitting his face. You squealed, then pulled him down from his father's chair to hug him tightly. You were going to marry Valarr, and now you were going to be best friends with him until the end of days.
-
The news of your departure from King's Landing came abruptly on a cloudy afternoon. Your parents had summoned you to the solar after your lessons, and sat you down on the armchair across from them with a serious look on their face.
Your initial confusion faded and a feeling of despair and sadness descended upon you as they explained that you'd all have to return home. As they went on about the inheritance conflicts between the minor houses of your region and how they, as their liege, would have to be present to manage the quarrels, your mind wandered to everything you’d be leaving behind. What of your friends here? What of the delicious cakes and beautiful gardens? And most importantly, what of Valarr, your best friend?
Their faces blurred as your eyes welled up with tears. Although you pressed your lips together to appear brave, a helpless sob wrenched itself from your mouth.
Your mother noticed your distressed state, leaving her seat to kneel before your armchair and hug you tightly until you'd calmed. Your mother's hand drew slow circles on your back, whispering words of consolation.
"When do we leave?" You asked as your mother loosed her hug, teardrops clinging to your lashes.
"In four days, at daybreak." Your father had a look of sadness as well, knowing that his daughter had found true, close friends at court. His guilt at having to tear you away from them due to his and your mother's duties as lord and lady paramount apparent in his expression. He’d always been exceptionally lenient to his only daughter’s wishes, but now he was faced with a wish he could not possibly fulfill.
But the promise. What of the promise with Valarr? You were going to get married. Panic washed over you.
"But what about Valarr? We were going to get married. I promised him," the truth spilled out of you with a new wave of tears. You let out a poorly contained sob, and your mother held you again in her arms as you buried your face in her shoulders.
"I'm sorry, sweetling. We both are. But sadly, it cannot be helped." She patted your back, assuming the talk of marriage was simply a talk of a child's whimsy, a play-pretend between two children. Children could be quite imaginative when playing, after all.
You sniffled, but nodded. No more fairytale readings with Valarr, no more playing lord of the crossing or monsters and maidens with the children of the court — and Valarr, of course —, and no more pony rides with your parents and Prince Baelor's household. Your little heart ached from the farewell, but you knew you could not stay when your parents were returning to your ancestral home.
When you took your leave to go to the godswood, your eyes were still red and swollen from the tears. Valarr spotted you from afar, and got up from his seat under the heart tree — our seat, you thought — to greet you, but his face fell when he saw your expression. He placed the fairytale tome on the ground, and walked up to you to meet you halfway.
"What's the matter?" His eyes searched your face, seemingly trying to guess the source of your distress from your look alone.
"We're leaving, Val. Mama and Papa just told me", you choked out, the lump in your throat from suppressing another sob growing almost painful.
His eyes widened at first, then fell into a sad frown. "But you're coming back, right?" he asked hopefully.
"I don't know", the corners of your mouth tilted down even further, "could be months, years 'till we get back.”
His gaze fell to the ground, his lips pulled into a taught, downward frown mirroring yours. He started fidgeting with the ring on his index finger, your signet ring on his index finger.
"It's going to be okay", he tried to be reassuring, though his voice shook slightly. "We took a vow, remember? When we're grown up, we'll get married, and we'll see each other again then. I will make sure of it."
"Promise?" Your voice trembled.
"Promise." Valarr nodded. Your Valarr. Your dearest, closest friend in the world. You nodded back, and you walked together to the heart tree, settling into your usual seats, and Valarr opened the book to read out your favorite story anew for the umpteenth time, the one about the princess, the knight, and the fearsome dragon.
-
208 AC
You sat on the terrace of your ancestral home, overlooking the gardens. The warm, early spring breeze threaded through your hair, the sun shining gently over your skin. The gardeners were working tirelessly, planting saplings and flower seeds for them to bloom once summer came. The watered wine on the side table had grown lukewarm under the sun’s rays, the open book in your lap laid forgotten as you watched the gardeners work their magic.
“My lady,” your maidservant called gently from behind you. “Your lord father wishes for you to join for afternoon tea in his solar now.”
You simply nodded, closing the book shut and placing it on the side table to stand up from your comfortable seat. Your mind was still firmly with the gardens, and what it would look like once the fruit tree saplings and the flowers bloomed. You hoped that there were peach trees among those planted today, peach tarts were truly one of the most delicious creations in the whole realm.
When you reached the double doors to your father’s solar, you waved off the guard’s question to whether he should announce your arrival, and swung the doors open yourself. Your parents were already seated at the tea table, lounging comfortably while leading a hushed discussion with smiles on their faces. You chose a chaise longue to sprawl on, and picked up a lime biscuit to nibble on.
“Father, mother, what might be the joyous matter you are discussing?” You raised an eyebrow, ignoring all the crumbs that were spilling all over your gown.
“We have royal invitations to the Red Keep, we leave in a sennight’s time,” your mother turned to you, a smile spreading on her face at the thought of visiting her dear friend, Lady Jena. “It will be marvelous to return there, do you remember when we spent a year at the Keep? You used to have quite a few friends there as a girl.”
You vaguely recalled the hazy memories, already a decade past now. Running through the godswood, learning to ride a pony, the games played with the other children, and the stories read under the heart tree.
“I remember,” you smiled, “I was devastated when we left. I think I had quite a nice time there.”
“You did,” your father smiled fondly. “And we think it would be nice for us to visit again. Your mother has missed Lady Jena’s company dearly, and you could reunite with your childhood companions. We would like for you to accompany us to the Red Keep.”
Your mind then jogged a deep-seated memory, Valarr. Your Valarr, who had been one of your dearest childhood companions. You remembered his plump cheeks, the curious white streak through his hair, and his mismatched eyes. For a few months after your departure, you had exchanged ravens - you had help from Septa Marya to write your letters - but, as children go, the contact had dwindled slowly. But he had always held a fond, nostalgic space in your heart.
The idea of seeing your childhood friend was not entirely unpleasant, you decided. You pouted in consideration, then asked: “What is the occasion, anyway?”
“The King has declared a royal tournament in honor of Prince Valarr’s sixteenth nameday. There will be plenty of our bannermen participating, and some of your cousins. You will not lack in company whilst we reside there.” Your father explained.
“And it would be a marvelous opportunity to find you a match! You’re a woman grown, love, and perhaps a handsome Lord or knight would catch your fancy,” your mother added joyfully.
You weighed the pros and cons on your mental scale, your pout persisting as you looked down at your tea cup. The long carriage ride to the Red Keep sounded dreadfull, but the occasion did seem quite merry. Plus, if you were lucky enough, you could secure a match of your preference as to avoid marrying an old, wrinkly Lord as some of your lady acquaintances had. Finally, you gave a nod in agreement.
“Wonderful! Remember darling, we leave in a sennight. Make sure to instruct your maids to pack your prettiest gowns! Oh, what a beautiful feast it will be,” your mother clapped her hands in elation, then sighed with a dreamy look. Your mother did always regard these occasions with her typical sense of whimsy, and her excitement to revisit her old friend, Lady Jena, only fanned her joy.
You nodded and smiled, perhaps it would indeed be nice to visit the place from your childhood again.
-
As the guests to his nameday tournament continued to stream in through the Red Keep’s gate, his eyes searched through the processions, his ears perking up at every announcement of the stewards. Most guests were arriving many days in advance to the festivities, but the presence he was most looking forward to was nowhere to be seen yet, despite the letter of acceptance sent by a raven days ago. He fidgeted nervously with the little signet ring on his right little finger, the child's ring now being too small for any other digit.
As he mechanically greeted the arriving Lords and Ladies, his mind kept wandering off to the neatly folded piece of parchment in his desk drawer. Only three more days, he reminded himself. Only three more days before his nameday, and there would be no more proposals of marriage pacts from houses he cared little for, no more dutifully reviewing the portraits sent from every corner of the realm, and he could finally declare his intentions before his family and the council.
As the sun started hanging low, his hopes for the day were starting to dwindle as well, before he spotted a procession in the distance, the unmistakable flag whipping in the wind with your sigil proudly stitched upon it. His heart leapt up in anticipation, but he commanded himself to remain steady at his father’s side.
It seemed to take an eternity for the carriage to finally pass through the gates and spill out its inhabitants. As he duly noted your father and your mother stepping out of the carriage, his eyes were tirelessly searching for your familiar face. When he finally spotted you, it felt as if the gods had slowed time before his eyes.
It had been almost a decade since you last saw each other. He had been besotted with you then, a simple playground child’s fancy, but now, the woman grown walking towards him, carelessly exchanging jests with your parents, snatched his breath away from his lungs and left him gasping for air. Time had changed you, but at the same time, it hadn’t changed you at all. The childish features had left your face, leaving behind a delicate, lovely visage, seemingly carved by the Maiden herself. The curvature of your nose, dropping into a philtrum and smoothing into the arch of your lips had stayed exactly the same as he remembered, as had the playful glint in your eyes.
As the rounds of greeting went by and you came to stand in front of him, he felt as if the gods had grasped him from the present and placed him back in time, standing dejected by Aelor in the godswood, as you tapped on his shoulder for the first time and invited him to join your group to play. He had fallen back then — as hard as a six-year-old with no real understanding of love could fall — but now he was helplessly spiraling again as you dipped into a curtsy before him.
"Prince Valarr," you greeted, his name falling from your lips sounded like the sermon bells of the Great Sept themselves to his ears.
"My lady," he collected himself and steadied his voice, "it is good to see you again after all this time." With all the grace himself, he carefully took your hand — a beautiful hand, he remarked — and kissed the back of it lightly. He could only hope that the slight nervous tremor would go unnoticed by you. When his gaze lifted to your face again, his eyes trailed down to your neck, where the blue topaz was glinting in the notch between your collarbones. The embers in his heart were fanned into a full-blown flame as he recognized the pendant, his pendant, a sign of his childish affection for you from a decade ago. You had kept it. What's more, you were wearing it even after all this time.
"As it is to see you," you smiled at his recognition, "I still hold our memories of childhood quite dearly." To anyone else, it might have come across as simple courtesy, but to Valarr, the fact that you held fond memories of him felt like salvation granted by the Seven themselves.
Valarr would have been content to stand there for the rest of eternity, holding your hand loosely in his grasp, looking at your face as the setting sun graced your skin with a golden glow. But as the round of greeting went by, he was forced to let you go, and greet the rest of your household in tow.
Then, he heard his mother speak words to your mother that sounded as though angels were descending from the heavens and blowing horns: "Dearest, it has been way too long! Oh, how I have missed you so. We must meet for a family afternoon tea, just our two households." She held your mother's hands in her own two hands, both giddy at the long-awaited reunion.
"Of course, Jena. Whenever you'd like. I'm sure my husband and my daughter would greatly enjoy it as well." Your mother beamed, and it was decided. Your two households would take afternoon tea in two days' time, in the privacy of the royal gardens. Valarr stole a glance at you, and his heart stuttered at your soft smile.
-
On the day after your arrival, you sat in the gardens under the white marble pergola with the other young ladies of court, as would be expected of you. Everyone was chattering excitedly about the upcoming tourney, which was no grand wonder as the castle seemed to be buzzing in preparations for it. The first day was set to be on the prince's nameday, with all the champions' jousts taking place on that day. The next few days would consist of melées and lower ranked jousts. You sat next to an old acquaintance of yours, a daughter of a bannerman of your father, only a year your senior, making her seventeen years of age.
"Oh, I hope Ser Devin will ask for my favor! How dreamy that would be," she looked into the distance with her eyes glazed over. Currently, she was swooning over your eldest cousin, who was part of a junior branch of your house and stood first in line to inherit his father's lands and castles. Personally, you did not understand the appeal, but politely smiled and nodded as to not spoil her fun.
"And are you looking forward to seeing any specific knights in the tilts, my lady?" A girl your age sitting on your other side inquired. If your memory serves you right, she was the daughter of a Stormlord.
"Oh, well I suppose I will cheer for my cousins, of course," you said, as it was common courtesy, "but otherwise, I must say that I am not quite sure yet. Perhaps the knights of the Kingsguard, they are famed to be the most magnificent knights of the realm, after all."
Some ladies sitting in your vicinity nodded at that. A girl you did not recognize started with a faint flush on her cheeks: "I most certainly am excited to see Prince Valarr in the lists, he is the very picture of chivalry, not to mention how handsome he is!" Murmurs rose in agreement.
Well, you could not deny her on that front. Valarr had definitely grown into his features; soft, pudgy cheeks had long been replaced by sharp, carved lines. His mismatched eyes he used to be insecure about only added to his handsome face. But frankly, you had a hard time imagining the sweet, timid boy from your childhood being so gallant in the lists.
"The Prince comes of age upon the first day of the tourney, I wonder what sorts of arrangements will be made in regards to choosing a match for him. How dreamy it would be to marry such a handsome prince! He is even the heir's heir, as if his gallantry and handsome were not enough." Another lady spoke out wistfully.
"Well, if it is his affection you are seeking, I am afraid we'd all be out of luck on that front," lamented a slim, brunette girl, surely a few years your senior. "He's already been presented with hundreds of potential matches and it's said that he turned down every single one of them, one of them from my own family."
"So do you suppose he simply has no intention to marry?" Your lady acquaintance's eyes widened.
"Aye, or I reckon he has a paramour, every man has desires, after all," snicked the brunette girl.
You frowned, as that sounded highly unlikely for Valarr, but held your tongue. As if the sweet, gentlest boy you used to know would ever dishonor himself and a woman that way.
"Whoever that woman is, I do greatly envy her," another girl you did not recognize sighed deeply, "What wouldn't I give to be in her place."
-
The afternoon tea on the day before the beginning of the tourney took place in the more private areas of the godswood, the little clearing in the woods had been transformed into a small gathering space, with chaise longues and cushions placed on the grounds beneath ornamented parasols. The only other presences aside from your two families were the servants, and the occasional small children running by, playing their games in the godswood just as you and Valarr had as children.
Lady Jena chatted happily away with your mother, lounging comfortably on the cushions. Prince Baelor sat on a chaise longue, facing your father, discussing lordly matters with him. You were sprawled out across the feather cushions and half-heartedly following the conversations when you heard someone clear their throat from behind you.
When you tilted your head back to face the person, the upside-down face of Prince Valarr greeted you. He was holding a hand out and lightly smiling, as far as you could tell from your position.
"Would you take a walk with me?" He asked, an almost unnoticeable hint of pink gracing the tip of his ears.
You have an affirmative hum, then got up to your feet to turn and face him. He was offering you his left arm to hold, which you gingerly accepted.
"Are you looking forward to the tourney, my prince?" you asked as to make polite small talk. He had grown into a quite tall young man, and you had to crane your neck to see his face at a close distance. As you did, you admired the beautifully carved lines of his cheekbones and jaw, he really had turned into an exceptionally handsome prince.
Valarr frowned slightly at that. "There is no need to be so formal, we did use to be quite close, after all."
"Well then Valarr," you corrected yourself, "are you excited for the tourney?"
Valarr's pink flush extended to his cheeks at the sound of his name falling from your lips. "Yes, among other things, I suppose."
"One's sixteenth nameday is always an occasion to look forward to," You agreed casually. "I am sure it will be a day to remember."
Valarr's steps slowed, which meant that you came to a halt with him in tow. "Speaking of sixteenth namedays," his cheeks were really quite pink now. You wondered if he was feeling warm under the sun's rays. "I believe yours has to come to pass three moons ago, if my memory serves me right." He smiled shyly.
You were slightly taken by surprise. Had he really remembered that detail?
"Yes, it has. Although, I denied my parents the pleasure of throwing a tourney or any form of extravagant celebration for the occasion." You mused.
"I had something commissioned for you," he reached into the pocket of his doublet with his free hand, and produced a small, square box. "You did tell me back then that best friends should always gift things to each other for their namedays."
You pulled your hand away from Valarr's arm to examine the box. When you opened it, small, ornate earrings made of twisting golden vines holding a blue topaz in the middle came to sight. Your breath caught at the goldsmith's intricate handiwork.
"Valarr, this is.." You searched for words. "Beautiful, thank you. It is really most thoughtful of you." It indeed was, as you noticed that it matched your necklace gifted from him all these years ago perfectly.
"You must forgive me," you scrunched your eyebrows, a slight pang of guilt going over you, "I did not bring any personal gift for your nameday. My parent have brought a-“
Valarr's smile did not falter as he interrupted your panicked words. "No matter, I had something in mind as to what you could gift me for my nameday, anyways."
You looked at him in confusion.
"I would like to ask for your favor to wear at the tilt tomorrow," his mismatched eyes searched your face. For what, though, you could not tell. "For old times' sake," he added hastily.
It made sense, you supposed. It was not unusual for knights to wear their sister’s, cousin’s, or a close companion’s favor, so Valarr simply must have continued to value your childhood friendship more than you expected. Still, it confused you as to why he would not wear the favor of a lady he wished to court.
“Of course,” you agreed, to his relief. “It would be an honor to have you wear my favor.”
He offered you his arm again to keep on walking, which you gladly accepted. As you walked further around the godswood, the sounds of children playing grew closer.
“Hai-yah!” a boyish voice cried out. When you turned your head in the direction of its source, you spotted two young boys, one with a shock of silver hair, another one with a tuft of auburn hair. They were wielding tree branches as if they were swords, clashing them against another and running wildly through the woods.
As you watched them, a strange sense of nostalgia bloomed in your chest. You distinctly remembered these woods, the familiarity growing stronger with every step. The two of you used to run through these very woods a long time ago, laughing wildly and jumping over the twisting roots.
“Little brother! Cousin! I must ask you to compose yourselves before our distinguished guest,” Valarr called out to the two boys. They slowly halted their wild chase, and padded over to you.
“My lady, may I introduce you to my brother, this is -“
“Matarys,” you interrupted Valarr’s introduction when you recognized the soft, auburn curls. He had been only a newborn when you last saw him, but Lady Jena’s auburn locks and Prince Baelor’s stern jaw was evident in the young princeling. “My Prince, it is an honor to meet you. Last I had seen you, you were still only a babe.” You dipped in a shallow curtsy and introduced yourself.
Valarr smiled fondly at you recalling the short meeting.
“The honor is all mine, my lady,” Matarys bowed, albeit a little clumsily. “Are you the lady friend my brother has been talking about?” He studied your face.
“Matarys,” Valarr hissed, the tips of his ears burning. Matarys let out a giggle, but held his tongue.
“And I’m Egg, my lady!” The silver-haired boy cried out, bouncing in excitement. “My name is actually Aegon, but everybody calls me Egg for short.” He grinned.
“It is a true pleasure to meet you, Prince Egg.” You dipped into a curtsy, your use of his nickname earning a giggle out of him.
“One day, I will be Ser Aegon of the Kingsguard! You see, I’m already training hard to be a strong knight.” He puffed his chest out, which reminded you a little bit of a small bird puffing its feathers to make itself seem bigger. You smiled fondly at his antics.
“Speaking of,” Egg turned to Valarr. “In case your squire cannot come, could I squire for you, cousin? Daeron does not wish to participate, but I would like to be a squire. Ser Donnel has already said I would make a good one! I-“
“Sure, cousin,” Valarr mirrored your fond smile at the little boy. “Gareth is quite healthy as of now, but at the event that he may not be able to partake, I will send for you.”
Egg whooped in joy, thanked Valarr, and took his leave by making an exaggerated bow. He dragged Matarys with him, who politely bid his farewells to you while Egg pulled at his arms.
“He has grown so fast,” you murmured as you resumed your walk, “sometimes, I cannot believe how time has passed by so quickly.”
Valarr hummed in agreement, and the two of you started back to the clearing.
-
On the bright and early morrow of his nameday, Valarr Targaryen used his privilege as a crown prince of the realm, and ordered his page to summon the Small Council for the first time in his short life. After he dressed himself in a formal doublet and trousers, he opened the small drawer of his writing table, and took the small, folded parchment out. He held it in his hands, feeling the weight of the hide and the wax seal. The passing of time and his frequent touches had frayed the edges, the surface smooth from the oils of his fingers. The creases and wrinkles showed that it had been folded and unfolded many times over the past decade, but the content etched in ink was still very much legible, clear as day. He tucked the parchment safely in his breast pocket before leaving his quarters.
He willed his drumming heart to calm on his walk over to the council chamber. The nervosity made him restless, his hands lightly shaking upon close inspection. As he waited for the council members to arrive, he mindlessly turned the signet ring with your house’s sigil on his right little finger, willing it to give him courage for what was to come.
The members of the council arrived one by one, some with still bed-tussled hair. His father, Baelor, was perfectly composed as ever, and raised his eyebrows at him in curiosity as to what the summons may be about. The remaining council members sat down groggily, and mumbled a good morrow and merry nameday wishes to Valarr.
“My Lords, father, I thank you greatly for your presence, and your heartfelt nameday wishes. I wished to bring a matter before the Small Council this morrow, ahead of the tourney starting at midday.” He did his best to speak with the quiet authority of his father, and stilled the small tremor in his voice. “As you all know, I have come of age today, and wish to let my intentions for marriage to be known. After all, it would be my utmost duty to the realm to marry and strengthen the line of succession.”
Many nodded, Baelor merely raised his eyebrows even further at his son’s sudden declaration of his interest for marriage. After all, he had sternly rejected every single courtships and proposals until now, and he had begun to suspect that he had no intention to marry at all.
“That is most wise, my prince,” croaked the old Grand Maester. “The council has a list at ready of all the eligible ladies of the realm, including-“
“Thank you, Grand Maester. However, that will not be necessary”, Valarr interrupted with a raised hand, “for I have been promised to a lady for nigh on a decade already.”
All eyes in the council chamber widened almost comically. Using the stunned silence, he took the parchment out of his breast pocket, unfolded it carefully, and placed it on the table. Baelor reached calmly for it, and read the words carved into it, remarking the childish handwriting. The Grand Maester rose from his seat, and leaned down from behind him to inspect the document as well.
“What is this?” his father asked, eyes lifting from the parchment.
“A marriage contract,” Valarr stated plainly. “It’s been signed by our own hands, and has the official seals of our houses on it.”
“I can see that,” Baelor furrowed his brows. “When-“
“My prince, if you would excuse me,” Grand Maester interrupted. “Marriage contracts usually involve witnesses, and I can’t seem to see any accounts of them.”
“I am a witness to this contract,” Valarr declared firmly. “I was there when it was written, signed, and sealed, obviously.”
“My apologies, your Grace, but a witness is usually-“ the old maester croaked.
“I am a prince of the realm, and a man grown as of today. Do you mean to doubt my abilities to stand witness to such significant matters?” His voice deepened, summoning an air of authority and sternness seldom witnessed in him.
The room fell into silence. Finally, the silence was broken when Baelor spoke. “According to the date, this was agreed upon when you both were but six years of age. Do you mean to stand by this contract nevertheless?” The look on his eyes was illegible.
“I do not take vows for naught, father,” Valarr stood his ground. “I have given my word upon my honor, and will stand by it. I have loved her since I was a boy, and will not take any other to wife.” He hesitated for a sliver of a moment, then added, “if she will have me.”
Baelor put the parchment down on the table, and pinched his nosebridge. The Grand Maester immediately picked up the document, and inspected it so closely, Valarr was worried he may bury his nose in it.
“My Lord Hand, the seals and signatures are indeed.. genuine. And if the prince and the lady are in fact, both of age, then I fear that there are no grounds upon which this contract can be denied.” He sighed.
Valarr watched his father’s reaction. For what seemed like an eternity, Baelor’s eyes remained closed, with his hand pinching the bridge of his nose. Finally, he opened his eyes to face his son, and placed his hands on the table.
“And you are certain, my son?” He asked, an exasperated look on his face.
“I have never been more certain, father.” The young prince met his gaze steadfastly.
“Very well,” Baelor huffed out, “I will speak to her father about this after the jousts today. Considering the delicate nature of this.. pact,” he waved his hand at the parchment, “I will need to approach this matter in a careful fashion.”
Valarr felt a great weight lifted from his chest, and breathed out in relief. Through the window, the sky seemed to shine a brighter blue, the trees the most vibrant green, and the sun’s rays graced everything with a golden glow.
“Thank you, father.” He bowed his head slightly.
“Do not thank me yet, son. We will see how the day goes, and whether her family will agree to this arrangement. Until then, nobody is to speak of this matter to those outside of this council.” With that, Baelor rose from his seat, and dismissed the council with a curt nod of his head. As Valarr watched the rest of the council members scurry out, he felt he could’ve hugged his father, so great was his gratitude at this moment.
-
The gates of the Red Keep was buzzing with excitement as carriages and horses carried the spectators of the tourney out of the Keep and towards the tourney grounds right outside of the city gates. As you sneaked a peek out of the carriage window, you could see children running alongside, shouting in glee as they made their way to the tourney as well.
You held a silk ribbon in your house colors in your hands, fidgeting mindlessly with it as you watched the narrow streets of King’s Landing pass by. The topaz earrings dangled from your ears, swinging along with every bump and pothole in the road. Your parents were chattering about the participating knights, and voicing their concern for your cousins’ safety. You were admittedly not too concerned about the matter, the jousting lances’ tips were made out of soft wood, made to shatter, and your overeager aunt and uncle had commissioned very intricate armors for your cousins to joust in.
When you rode past the city gates, your eyes were greeted by hundreds of colorful pavillions and banners snapping in the wind. The empty meadow outside of the city walls had been transformed into a marvelous tourney ground, bustling with life.
The carriage stopped, letting your family step out onto the spring grass. Your parents craned their necks as they searched for your cousins’ pavillion, which was spotted rather quickly due to the tall flag with your heraldry stitched upon it. You threaded your arm through your mother’s, walking past the busy squires, merchants shouting out for the nobles to look at their wares, and steelworkers hammering away in their tents.
Once arrived at your relatives’ pavillion, your parents eagerly entered, wishing to bid your cousins good fortune for their tilts. You were briefly distracted in front of the entrance by a small mouse scuttling about, watching its movements, when a warm touch on your shoulder startled you.
Your body whipped around in surprise, and yelped when you came face-to-face with Valarr standing before you in his armor. His broad frame, with the added breadth of the armor, easily towered over you.
“Hi,” he was already smiling, dimples forming on his chiseled cheeks. His mismatched eyes were glinting with something you could not quite place. When he spotted the jewelry dangling from his ears, his smile widened.
“Valarr, hi,” you breathed out.
“I wanted to come see you before the jousts started shortly,” he took a small step towards you. The heat eminating from his body was almost palpable, even through his thick steel armor. “For the favor.”
That made sense, you supposed. You did promise him a favor for the tilts today.
You were still holding the silk ribbon in your hand, the floral stitchings along with your house sigils had been embroidered by your own hands.
“May I-“ you gestured at his arm hanging by his side.
“Oh, yes, of course.” He slightly lifted his arm, allowing you sufficient space to wrap the ribbon around his upper arm, and secure it with a bow.
“It’s beautiful, thank you.” He took your hand, and bent down to plant a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “I must get going, the champions must be present when the start of the tourney is announced. I hope I’ll see you in the stands.”
"You will," you smiled back at him, "happy nameday, Valarr. And good fortune in the lists today."
"I have all the fortune I need, but thank you," Valarr mused, holding up the arm with your ribbon tied around it.
And with that, he took his leave. You blinked, processing whatever just occurred, then collected yourself and entered the pavilion to wish your cousins good fortune.
-
Your mother's closeness with Lady Jena ensured that your family's seats in the stands were situated right next to the royal box; offering an excellent view over the jousting grounds. As you sat, the herald blew the horn, marking the start of the tourney, and announced the champions as they rode in.
The crowd burst into a roar as the knights in shining armor rode in on their mounts, you quickly spotted Valarr, the white streak in his hair a clear beacon even from a distance. Your ribbon on his arm was snapping in the wind, you could faintly hear the whispers of courtiers speculating whose favor the Young Prince could possibly be wearing. Riding on his pitch black destrier clad in elegant armor, he really did paint a handsome picture, his body moving fluidly with the horse, adeptly commanding it with a squeeze of his legs and a light tug on the rein. His black armor with his house’s sigil enameled on the breastplate glinted in the sun, and you briefly wondered whether that was done intentionally as to blind his opponents in the sunlight.
The champions raised their swords as the crowd cheered, then all bowed their heads to the royal box in a show of respect before riding off to the sidelines where their squires were waiting. The champions’ first opponents rode in as well, searching for their squires in the chaos of it all.
“Helmet!” You heard Valarr shout out to his squire, his voice a couple notes deeper than usual. He was always soft-spoken and gentle, and you had never heard him sound quite so commanding before. Soon, his white streak was hidden under the helm, and he was only recognizable via his armor.
As the knights lined up by the lists, the warhorses were impatiently huffing and stomping on the ground. You squinted to see who Valarr’s first opponent be, and identified a blue enameled fish upon the armor. A Tully, then.
The horn blew, and kicking up a great dust storm, the mounts galloped forward, the riders upon their backs lowering their lances. The first pass was over in a blink, the wooden tips of tourney lances bursting against shields and armors, and you saw that some riders had been unhorsed already.
Your eyes seeked Valarr out, and to your relief, him and his black destrier emerged from the dust cloud victorious; his opponent lay unhorsed on the ground. Valarr dismounted at the sight, and walked over with a hand on the sword’s hilt to his opponent, struggling to get back on his feet.
From a distance, you faintly heard him yell out, “I yield, my prince! I yield!” Only then, Valarr eased the grip on his sword, and held his hand out to help him get off the ground. The crowd burst out in another wave of cheers at the sight; praising the Young Prince for his chivalry.
In the next tilts, Valarr faced five more challengers, one of them being his own cousin, Aerion Brightflame. He donned a spiky black armor, paired with a helmet showing a monstrous visage upon it. After two titillating matches, Valarr finally rode him down; after which Aerion rose against him, unsheathing his broadsword. The melée that followed was not short-lived, steel met steel in a flash of sparks and wooden shields splintered under heavy blows, until Valarr unarmed him and held him at swordpoint.
The crowd, highborns and smallfolk alike, were roaring in his support; a glinting hope in their eyes that Baelor Breakspear’s line proved to be just as skilled in arms as he was. An ember of pride was fanned every time he raised his lance arm after unhorsing an opponent, your favor waving in the wind. Maybe it really had brought him good fortune.
Your cousins fared adequately enough, Devin, the eldest, unhorsing two opponents before being unseated himself in the third tilt. The others had not been so lucky, and fell from their horses in their first rides. But they all seemed unharmed, aside from minor scraps and bruises.
The tilts, which started at midday, continued until the sun was nearing the western horizon and a pale moon shone on the opposite side of the sky. There was only one tilt left for the day; Valarr was to ride against Ser Roland of the Kingsguard. After a brief break, Valarr returned to the lists. He swung onto his black destrier, riding to the sidelines as his squire followed with the helmet and shield in his arms.
As Valarr held his helm in his hands, his head turned towards the stands. At first, you thought he might be looking at his family in the royal box, but his gaze came to rest upon you. His hair was matted from sweat, dark brown strands plastered across his forehead from the heat and exhaustion, but his face held a determined look. You held eye contact and gave your dear childhood companion an encouraging nod before he slid his helmet on. You could not be sure due to the distance, but it almost seemed as if the corner of his mouth lifted in a soft smile before it was obscured by the enameled helmet.
His squire promptly delivered him the shield and put the lance in his hand, and scurried off to the weapons’ racks as to be ready when Valarr would need his next lance.
Ser Roland looked formidable as well on the opposite side of the lists, he was sitting upon his chestnut warhorse, clad in all-white armor and cloak of the Kingsguard. He was older, and more experienced, which pushed the odds in his favor. However, Valarr rode as if he had been blessed by the Warrior himself that day, the memory of the success in the council chamber that morning filled his tired muscles with strength, and he felt almost battle-high.
Not a moment too soon, the herald announced the start of the final tilt. “May the Crone guide your lance, and the Warrior grant you strength!” He cried out, then blew the start horn.
The sound of the hooves striking the ground thundered across the meadow, the cheering of the crowds so loud your ears were threatening to ring. In a flash, both lances broke cleanly off the shields, and both riders remained seated. You held your breath as Valarr seemed to sway slightly, but he quickly regained his composure. As he urged his destrier around, you were not sure if the glint of his mismatched eyes gazing in your direction was only imagined or not.
The second pass was more brutal; the riders met in a clash of bursting wood again, but Ser Roland had met Valarr’s pauldron with the tip of his lance, sending the Young Prince reeling from his seat. In contrast, Valarr’s lance had harmlessly broken against the Kingsguard’s shield.
A collective gasp went up from the crowd as Valarr’s body lurched backwards, with only one foot remaining in the stirrups. However, to the delight of the spectators, his hooked his foot firmly around it, and pulled his body upright again, sitting tall upon his mount.
As the horn urging the third pass blew, Valarr kicked his destrier’s sides firmly with his greaves, riding with his torso lowered against his mount, and his shield raised in defense. In the final moment before impact, Valarr’s lance drifted laterally by a minuscule bit, its tip bursting against Ser Roland’s breastplate in a shower of splinters. Ser Roland was cleanly unhorsed, landing with an uff on his back.
The crowd erupted in a roar, and you felt yourself grin at his victory. He had won his nameday tilt, your sweet, gentle Valarr had truly grown into a most gallant knight.
While the cheers died down and Ser Roland was helped up by his squires, the herald climbed down from the stands and marched towards Valarr holding the wildflower crown. The victorious prince lifted the helmet off, revealing a proud smile upon his face. He nodded to the royal box in a show of respect, to which Baelor and Jena rose their cups in response.
Valarr took the wildflower wreath from the herald, and the grounds fell into silence in anticipation to which lady would be crowned queen of love and beauty by the Young Prince. You looked on in anticipation as well, but your breath caught in your throat when he urged his destrier towards your family.
He softly called out your name, and you felt all eyes turn towards you. “Would you grant me the honor of crowning you as the queen of love and beauty?” You almost choked on your own spit from surprise. “For old times’ sake.” He added in a hushed voice, his eyes glinting under the blueish lights of dusk. Despite the apparent exhaustion, he looked beautiful. In the background, you vaguely perceived an excited squeal from your mother.
You barely registered yourself nodding before you made your way down to the railing and lowered your head to accept the wildflower crown. Valarr gently lowered it on the crown of your head, and brushed a hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. In your daze, the deafening applause and cheers from the crowds sounded almost muffled in your ears. You accepted the crown in a haze of confusion and perplexity. To the onlookers, his eyes held the look of a man utterly enamored when gazing upon you, clear as day. Not that you noticed.
-
The festivities in the Great Hall were as grand as any, if not grander. King Daeron the Good had not been frugal at all when planning his grandson’s sixteenth nameday feast, quite the contrary in fact. There were seven absolutely extravagant courses gracing the tables, not even counting the appetizers and desserts. You dug in as your hunger had grown quite insistent during the day, t’was hard work sitting unmoving in the stands under the sun. Jests aside, the food was marvelous, every course truly a testament to the castle’s cooks.
When the last course had been cleared away by the servants, the guests started to take to the dancefloor. Strangely enough, Prince Baelor had vanished from the dais around the same time. Probably some matters of the realm, you brushed it off as the Hand of the King attending to some royal affairs. You adjusted the flower wreath on your head as it was starting to slide down to your brows, and watched the dancing pairs glide across the floor. As you reached for your goblet of wine, a warm hand reached from behind and tapped on your shoulder.
“Valarr,” your face broke into a smile when you saw the victor of the day’s jousts. “My congratulations for winning in the lists today, you rode splendidly.”
“Well fought, my prince,” your father, seated next to you, joined in with his own praises.
“Thank you, truly.” Valarr tilted his head in gratitude. “Would the queen of love and beauty grace me with her first dance?”
You looked down at his hand held out in invitation, before nodding and graciously taking his hand in acceptance. As you walked to the middle of the floor, heads turned as they spotted the crown prince and the flower wreath perched atop your head. You both took up the starting pose, with your hand placed on his shoulder, and his arms wrapping around your waist to rest on the small of your back. His hand gently held your free hand, and you drifted into familiar steps of the dance.
“Do not be alarmed,” Valarr whispered, “but I think my father has just summoned yours to his solar. I saw his page speak to your father, and leave the room with him.”
“Oh?” Your head tilted in bemusement. “Whatever might that be about?”
Valarr’s cheeks reddened at the question, and your confusion deepened. Perhaps he did not feel well discussing his father’s more confidential proceedings, so you decided to leave the topic for the sake of the poor boy. Your two families had been close for a decade now, surely they had enough matters to discuss. If it was important enough, your father would disclose it to you later anyways.
“Your final tilt against Ser Roland was magnificent, by the way,” you teased, “I had feared you might lose your seat during that second pass, but the recovery was quite impressive.”
The poor prince’s cheeks grew impossibly redder. Even as a child, he’d never been adept at handling praise. He could only mumble out a thank you. The contrast between the valiant knight at the lists and the blushing prince in front of you was almost adorable; perhaps Valarr had not yet entirely outgrown the sweet, timid boy he used to be.
As the song came to an end, a Lord you did not recognize stood in front of you, requesting your next dance. Valarr, ever the kind, dutiful prince, took his leave to return to the dais.
The status as the queen of love and beauty of the day came with a steady stream of dancing partners, you forgot their names almost as soon as they introduced yourself; you were never really adept with names and faces anyways. When your feet began to ache and you excused yourself to take your seat by your mother’s side, a page intercepted you just as you were about to pull out your chair. Your mother raised an eyebrow at that, her husband had been occupied in a meeting with the Hand for a good while, and apparently it now required your presence, as well.
“M’ady, I apologize for the interruption. The Hand and your father require your presence in the Hand’s solar.” The young boy, twelve years of age at most, stuttered out.
“Of course, would you be so kind as to lead the way?” You smiled as you lowered the crown from your head and placed it on the table, assuming you’d be returning in a short while.
-
The dim, torchlit corridors leading to the Hand’s solar were unfamiliar at first sight, but as you ventured further with the young page, the memories started swarming back. The afternoon teas with the two families, Valarr’s sixth nameday morrow, and sitting idly while your father discussed lordly matters with Prince Baelor surfaced with every step you took.
Soon enough, you stood in front of the familiar double doors leading to Baelor’s solar. This time, you patiently waited as the page announced you before stepping in. You were greeted by the sight of Baelor sitting at his desk, your father sat in the armchair facing him. The candlelights bestowed a rather serious atmosphere in the room.
“Father, my Lord Hand,” you took a shallow curtsy, “I have heard you sent for me.” You searched their faces for hints as to what this may be about, but failed miserably.
“My lady, thank you for joining us,” Baelor tilted his head. “We have quite important matters to discuss with you, specifically-“ he briefly searched for words, “regarding your marriage pact.”
Your head went blank. “..What?” What is it with a marriage pact now?
Letting the evidence speak for itself, Baelor slid a piece of parchment in your direction. You approached his desk, and lifted the document to your eyes. The parchment was obviously quite old, but not old enough to crumble in your hands. The soft, smooth surface indicated frequent handling, as did the numerous creases. The writing upon it was carved into the hide in a child’s handwriting, and it contained a very briefly written marriage contract between you and Valarr. When your eyes reached the end of the parchment, you identified your own handwriting as a child, crooked and wonky in a way the late Septa Marya used to scold you about. Your thumb traced the wax seals, worn down by time but still obviously genuine.
Oh. You now feintly recalled the day where you produced this document. It came as a surprise that Valarr had kept this all this time, but then all Valarr did the last few days was surprise you.
“Valarr presented this contract to the Small Council this morrow, he says he will not take anyone else to wife.” Baelor calmly explained, watching your face closely. “The Grand Maester has inspected the document himself, and has declared it genuine. I initially wished to discuss this matter with your father alone, but he has insisted on hearing your opinions on this. Believe me my lady, neither of us will see you married unwillingly on the basis of a pact you signed at the age of six.”
You briefly unpacked your mental balance scale, weighing your options. The benefits included the fact that 1. he was your dearest childhood companion, 2. he had grown into a quite handsome man, and 3. he was considerate, gentle and kind. The only drawback was.. Well, you rummaged through your head, but failed to come up with any.
“Will you have him?” Baelor asked, his eyebrows furrowed in concern at your silence.
“Yes, I will,” the words left your lips without a hint of hesitance as you placed the parchment back on the table.
“Are you sure, daughter?” It was your father’s turn to question you.
“Yes, why not?” You shrugged. “He’s grand.”
“Grand?” The Hand’s eyebrows rose in amusement at you describing his son as grand. You and Valarr’s antics today were certainly providing Baelor’s facial muscles with quite an exercise.
You nodded, as if your statement was to explain anything and you did not understand what the confusion was about. He truly was grand, after all. There wasn’t much else you could wish for in a future husband. The crown prince and your father were staring at you with a look one could only describe as bewilderment.
“Just to confirm, you will accept the terms of this.. contract, and take my son as your lawful husband?” Baelor asked, a slight look of confusion upon his eyes, wondering whether you had heard the question correctly.
“I will, my prince.” You nodded again, your casual tone steadfast.
“Then it is settled,” The Hand looked to your father, who nodded in agreement.
As you and your father took your leaves from the solar and shut the doors behind you, you came face to face with Valarr, who had obviously been pacing. His gaze shifted between you and your father, a look of hopefulness evident in his eyes.
“Val,” you softly called his name. “Guess we truly are getting married now.” You shrugged lightly, and giggled.
A sigh of relief punched itself out of him, and he looked to your father.
“You have my blessings, my prince. You can consider yourselves.. officially betrothed now.” He offered a slight bow.
“That is most wonderful news,” his face split into a smile as he stepped towards you to clasp your hand within his own two hands. “I swear, I will do the utmost to make you happy, anything you want. Simply tell me, and I will see it done. Even if it is not in my power, I promise I will make it so.”
You blushed, then looked down, suppressing a wide grin. Only then, your eyes trailed down to his right hand, where the small, children’s sized signet ring rested upon his little finger. Your breath caught in surprise as the torchlight glanced off the polished band.
“You kept it,” You murmured.
Valarr looked confused for a moment, but lowered his gaze to follow yours. When he realized what you’d meant, his joyous smile melted into a more calm, fond one.
“Of course I have, it’s from you. And I promised to always cherish it.”
Oh. You felt as though somebody had smacked you on the back of the head. Every hint, every glance, every word clicked into place in that moment. Valarr had been in love with you all along, since you were all but children. He’d taken care to remember all your childish promises to each other, even keeping the scrap of parchment tucked away safely for nigh on a decade.
“Have you really? After all this time?” Your voice was hushed, your heart picking up its pace in your ribcage. Your lips parted slightly in awe.
“Yes, love. It’s always been you.” Finally, he confessed, his beautiful, mismatched eyes gazing adoringly at you.
As if it was the most natural thing in the world.
- Epilogue -
When you returned to your family’s assigned quarters, your motherr was already waiting at the tea table, eagerly waiting to hear what all the fuss had been about. When your father retold the events of the evening, she was practically bouncing in her seat in excitement at your betrothal.
“In retrospect, I must ask you, daughter,” your father turned his head towards you, “have you been aware of the existence of that document all this time?”
“Frankly, I had forgotten,” you shrugged. “But now that I saw it, I do remember sneaking into Prince Baelor’s office that day.” Your parents tried to look scandalized, but the air of amusement was evident.
“Darling, she did try to tell us that one time, remember? When we told her we were leaving King’s Landing.” Your mother’s eyes lit up, recalling your confession which they both had assumed was simply a child’s fancy. “She said that she was going to marry him, and that they promised.”
“Well, nobody expects their six-year-old daughter to go and sign a marriage contract,” your father snorted. Honestly, that was a fair assessment.
“The most important thing is, it did turn out quite well,” you held up your palms in defence, a smirk on your face. “I am quite satisfied with the match, if I dare say so myself.”
Your parents laughed out at your understatement laced with a jest. Indeed, it had turned out quite alright.
Note: I loved writing this so much!! I already have so many ideas for little snippets of their first kiss, wedding night and fun little misadventures, so if it's wished for, I'll be more than happy to write them! Thank you all so so much for liking my initial concept for this fic, it means the world to me <3
Summary: Valarr Targaryen was born of focus. Until he spots a quiet noble lady in the stands and immediately forgets how to be normal. He finds her name, tries (poorly) to stop staring, and spends an entire feast planning how not to overwhelm her. By morning, he's engineered a fool-proof plan to encounter her, fumbles the opening line, makes her laugh anyway, and walks away grinning like he's won the whole tourney.
Notes: Reader is shy but not meek or a pushover. She's just not comfortable around people she doesn't know. She could be read as being on the autism spectrum but I didn't go into detail on this, might do that if someone asked me to in a later part.
Under regular circumstances, you wouldn't have made an appearance at the Tourney. Though you suppose searching for marriage prospects is a special occasion. Many would claim it is the grand centrepiece of a young noble girl's transition into womanhood, but for you, it had always been nothing less than daunting.
It was not for lack of options, your house was well-known, well-funded and well-liked, and this called for many, many suitors. Rather, the predicament seemed to revolve around your disposition.
In the past, many had seen your nature to be one of disinterest, though you yourself preferred the term 'shyness'. You struggled to make eye contact with those you did not know and had to actively remind yourself to try and maintain it. Though you did not stutter when you spoke with new people your nerves meant that answers could fall short of what men expected from a woman from such an esteemed house.
That is, if they were interested in your character at all, you'd found that many men only vied for your hand in order to get their hands on the abundance of your house's wealth and lands.
To put it plainly, you were quiet.
Your family never saw the issue with this, though in truth, they did not see the problem. See, your anxieties only affected you around those you did not know. You could speak just fine for hours when you held a connection to whoever you were talking to, but as soon as a stranger entered the picture, your chatterbox nature simply faded away.
Your father hoped to find a suitable match for you at the tourney, someone who could understand your nature and who was not cruel. He would remind you often that you didn't need to love your match, as long as you felt comfortable living alongside them would be enough.
Your attention had been fixed on the field below, where squires hurried between restless horses and armoured men with the brisk, purposeful movements of those long accustomed to tourney days. The lists were nearly ready. House banners snapped overhead in the wind, and the smell of trampled grass, dust, and horse sweat hung thick in the afternoon air.
It was loud enough, busy enough, that it gave you something to look at besides the nobles packed around you. Which, for a time, was a mercy.
You sat beside your father in the nobility section, hands folded tightly in your lap, and tried to keep your face composed as more lords and ladies took their places. The royal section sat nearby, and every new arrival only seemed to make the space feel smaller. Prince Baelor sat proudly as he watched his eldest son ride onto the field.
Your father spoke to you now and again, gesturing towards a man cloaked in green, low enough that no one else might hear. "That is Lord Rowan's second son. The Hightower boy has a temper, if the stories are true." Another pause, as a knight in polished plate was helped into the saddle below. "And there, the Prince."
You followed his gaze before you could stop yourself. Prince Valarr sat astride a dark horse near the edge of the lists, helm tucked beneath one arm while a squire made some final adjustment to the strap at his vambrace. Even at a distance, there was something unmistakably princely in the way he carried himself, upright, still, self-possessed.
"Do not turn too quickly," your father said, his voice so mild it might have been a remark on the weather.
Your fingers tightened over one another. "What is it?" He did not look at you. His gaze remained fixed on the field. "The prince has been looking this way."
For a moment, you thought he meant some other prince, some other direction, some other girl.
"Prince Valarr?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.
"Mm." Your father's expression did not change, but you knew him well enough to hear the note of attention. "More than once."
Heat rose to your face so quickly you had to turn your head away. "He is not looking at us, surely," you said, and hated how uncertain you sounded. The royalty box was so close he could easily be looking for his father's gaze. Besides, he was probably too far away to truly be able to pick apart those in the audience.
Most men did not concern themselves with quiet girls tucked among the nobility. If his gaze had swept your row, it was by chance alone, toward your father, perhaps.
"Perhaps not," your father said. There was no comfort to be found there.
Below, a herald's voice rang across the grounds, announcing titles to a swell of cheers. You fixed your eyes on the lists and tried to breathe through the tightness in your chest. It was foolish to be so rattled by a thing you had not even seen for yourself.
You would not look, you told yourself. That promise lasted all but three seconds.
When you lifted your eyes, it was meant to be quick, discreet, no more than a glance toward the field. Besides, even if the prince was looking this way, it was such a distance that he would not see your eyes turned to him; there were so many people around you, he couldn't possibly assume you were looking at him.
Instead, your gaze found him at once. Prince Valarr was no longer speaking to his squire. The strap at his arm had been fastened, his reins gathered, his posture set for the lists, and still he was looking intently up into the stands.
He did not smile. There was nothing mocking in his expression, nothing of the easy arrogance some noblemen and royalty wore like perfume. If anything, he looked startled in the strangest way, as though his attention had fixed where he had not meant it to, and he could not quite pull it free.
"Father-"
"Composure," he murmured, not unkindly.
You nodded, though your pulse had begun to pound so hard you could feel it in your throat. Around you, the stands had grown louder, the crowd sensing the start of the tilt. Somewhere to your left, ladies were already whispering behind their hands, though whether about the prince or some other matter, you could not tell.
When your eyes lifted, Prince Valarr was settling his helm at last, the steel catching hard in the sunlight. His horse stamped once, impatient.
The herald called his name, and the crowd answered with a mighty roar for the Young Prince.
He should have turned fully to the lists then. He should have fixed his attention on the knight across from him, on the lance being brought to hand, on the pass ahead.
Instead, before the horn sounded, he looked up toward the nobility seats one last time.
Valarr had ridden in a dozen processions before crowds no smaller than this one, and he had long since learned how to wear attention as if it weighed nothing. As the heir of the heir, it was expected of him.
At tourneys, especially, eyes tended to follow him wherever he went. Sons of noble houses measuring him up, knights judging his seat in the saddle, and noble ladies whispering to one another, pretending not to stare. He knew how to sit straight beneath it, how to keep his expression composed. That didn't mean he took any true enjoyment in the attention.
His horse shifted beneath him, restless with the noise and motion. Valarr steadied the reins with one gloved hand while his squire fastened the strap at his vambrace.
Around him, the field was steadily descending into some form of organised chaos, squires were running amok, and the smallfolk were shouting for their favourites from the fences. He heard none of it clearly. His attention had fixed itself elsewhere.
At first, he had only looked because the seats sat close to the royal section, and his gaze had drifted towards his father. It was nothing more than a habit, some passing inventory of colours and houses. His attention had snagged on one person in particular. She was not the most extravagantly dressed, but that did not take from her comely appearance. In fact, it very well may have amplified it in his eyes. Valarr was often dissuaded by the acts and appearances of other nobles, much like his father; he was not fond of those who flaunted their wealth through their materialism.
The lady sat with her hands neatly folded in her lap beside an older lord, her father, if he hazarded a guess. She carried herself with such careful stillness that it caught his eye at once in the crowd of excited nobility. While others leaned close to gossip or to access a better view of the lists, she seemed to be trying with all her might to take up as little space as possible.
Yet he could not seem to look away.
Her expression held no courtly ease or excessive invitation. There was nothing practised about her features, something he had learned to spot at court as a young boy. She looked toward the field as if anchoring herself to it; perhaps the movement below gave her some shelter from the crowd around her. She was particularly focused on the horses; perhaps she held a liking for them?
Valarr did not know why that struck him so sharply, only that it did, and it shouldn't have mattered so deeply.
"My prince." He blinked out of his reverie and looked down at his squire. He was finished with his strap and was waiting, lance not yet in hand, clearly uncertain whether to speak again.
Valarr simply gave a short nod, more to dismiss him than to answer. Instinctively, he looked back up before he could stop himself. The lady had not yet seen him, which should have been a relief. Staring was unbecoming for a Prince, after all. Instead, he found himself with an absurd, sudden irritation of wanting to know whether she had noticed him at all.
He shifted in the saddle, waving his squire over who had collected his lance. "Who is she?" He asked, as if his squire would know whom he was speaking of naturally.
The boy glanced up to the stands, then back to him, lost in his confusion. "My prince?"
Valarr was yet to take his eyes off her. "In the nobility seats. Beside the lord in blue and silver." His voice remained even despite the impatience that had begun to edge it. "Find out her name, her house. Whatever you can."
The squire stared a half breath too long, surprise plain on his face, before he looked back to the stands, this time successfully locating the woman Valarr had described. "...At once, my prince." Valarr barely heard him take his leave.
He really should have been watching his opponent. Instead, he watched the lady in the stands lower her head as though someone beside her had spoken. Her father, most likely. He had not looked towards the Prince, but his posture had changed. It seemed he had noticed the Prince's gaze.
Valarr ran a hand down his horse's neck as she stamped her hooves impatiently. Then, the woman lifted her eyes. The distance should have blurred her and obscured her face. There was too much movement, too many people between them and yet none of it mattered. Her gaze connected with his directly, and both went still.
There were nerves in her face and surprise enough that he could see it from where he stood. He supposed that is a reasonable reaction given their predicament. She looked away first. Not playing coy or performatively. A simple desire not to maintain eye contact any longer.
Valarr reached for his helm, glancing up one last time after sliding the steel onto his head. He had no business thinking such things at a time like this. he had to focus.
And maybe show off a little, for no particular reason.
He did manage to regain his focus, in the end. Enough to avoid making a fool of himself.
By sunset, the field was all churned mud and broken lances, and Valarr had endured the cheers and the congratulations. His squire, at least, had proved useful.
He had a name now.
He repeated it once under his breath as he changed for the feast, testing the sound of it in private, and found that the sound pleased him more than it ought.
The tent at Ashford was bright with candlelight by the time he entered, loud with talk and music and the clatter of cups. Lords who had shouted themselves hoarse at the lists now laughed over wine, and ladies glittered beneath gold and silk in the heat of the room.
Valarr scarcely saw any of them. He found her near the middle tables, seated beside her father once more. If he had thought her striking from the field, dust and distance between them, then the gods were crueller than he had first suspected. Up close, there was nothing to hide behind.
Even now, amidst all the noise and candlelight, she carried that same careful composure he had noticed in the stands. Her hands rested neatly near her cup. She spoke when spoken to, but sparingly. Her gaze dipped more often than it lifted. Not submissively, but rather politely.
Once, her father leaned nearer and murmured something that made the corner of her mouth turn, not quite a smile, but near enough to one that Valarr felt the shift of it like a hand closing around his attention.
He did not mean to stare. Again. But he supposed the intent meant very little now.
He waited through the first course. Through half of the second. Through two tedious conversations with men who seemed to think recounting their sons' tilts in detail might somehow improve them. At last, when Lord Ashford rose from his place to speak with one of the stewards, Valarr took the opening and crossed the tent.
"My lord Ashford."
Ashford turned at once, surprised, then pleased. "Your Highness. I trust we serve as well as the lists did."
"You do," Valarr said politely. "You have hosted the day admirably. A worthy celebration for your daughter's nameday."
Ashford inclined his head, accepting the courtesy with visible pride. "You honor us."
Valarr let his gaze drift, carefully, as if only taking stock of the space. He did not linger overlong on her table before looking back to Ashford.
"I recognised one of the houses seated near the centre," he said, tone easy. "I know the banner, but not the lord himself as well as I ought. The one in blue and silver. You invited him, I assume?"
Ashford followed the glance and gave a small sound of understanding.
"Ah. Yes." His expression warmed at once. "A good man. We've been friends for years. Steady, fair, not given to boasting, rare enough among our sort." He named the lord, though Valarr already knew it. "One of the first invitations I sent."
Valarr nodded, as though filing away a simple courtesy.
"He seems well regarded."
"He is." Ashford's mouth twitched, amusement rising. "And if you're asking after him, you're not the first tonight."
Valarr lifted a brow. "No?"
Ashford lowered his voice a shade, the look in his eyes turning faintly wry. "His daughter has had no shortage of attention. That tends to happen when a girl is pretty, well-born, and comes with a father sensible enough not to sell her to the first smiling fool."
Valarr kept his expression neutral, though something in Ashford's phrasing settled sharply in his chest.
"Sensible enough?"
Ashford snorted. "He's here to seek a match, same as half those attending, but he's not hunting titles for sport. He wants her settled kindly. He'd sooner take a decent man with less land than a cruel one with twice the banners." That, inexplicably, pleased Valarr.
She was listening to the lady at her other side, posture attentive, though she had not yet answered. Her father said something then, low and brief, and she turned to him at once, more at ease in that single movement than she had seemed with anyone else at the table.
Ashford followed Valarr's gaze, then huffed softly through his nose.
"Some mistake her quietness for disinterest," he said. "They're wrong." Valarr looked back at him. "She's shy," Ashford went on, plainly now. "Reserved in company she doesn't know. There are men in this room who've already decided she must be proud because she doesn't chatter and simper for them." His expression soured for a heartbeat. "Most of them have spoken to her for all of three minutes."
He could picture it too easily: some grinning heir pressing too close, mistaking her silence for invitation, or else taking offense at it when she did not perform as expected.
Ashford gave a half-shrug. "Truth is, she needs time. She must first warm to people, that's all. Once she's comfortable, she's quite the speaker. More eloquent than most. But she won't force herself into easy conversation just because a man comes to her with marriage in his eyes."
Ashford's words settled into place with an ease that irritated Valarr with how quickly they made sense. A young lordling had made his way over to speak with her and was leaning too far in her direction, inflated by his own importance. She answered politely and made brief eye contact here and there, her fingers tightened around the stem of her cup. Nothing in her posture invited him to continue, and yet he did so anyway.
Valarr felt his jaw set, not with jealousy (well, maybe a little, but only because he hadn't had the chance to talk with her yet) but impatience on her behalf. It was a familiar thing, the male entitlement. His father had pointed it out to him numerous times as a child, as advice for the future. Things not to do. As a man, he would likely never fully understand, but hopefully, he wouldn't make others feel less than because of uncontrollable factors.
"They are like flies to honey." Lord Ashford followed his gaze to the Lady.
Valarr kept his voice level, though there was a hint of sadness to be found there. "And she endures it."
"That she does," Ashford answered. "Because she's well-mannered, and because others are watching. But it wears on a person, Your Highness. And despite what the other Lords may think of her quiet disposition, she is not one to simply roll over for others. I imagine it is tiring to live in that juxtaposition, between what she wishes to do and what she must do for the sake of appearance."
Valarr could see it clearly, the tightness of her shoulders paired with the way she glanced at her father as if measuring what was expected of her. He looked back at Ashford. "If time is what she needs, this tent must be the last place to approach her."
Nice one, Valarr, very inconspicuous.
The lord huffed out a laugh. "You've the right of it."
The prince hesitated, he meant to keep it as a simple courtesy. He should keep his interest quiet so that Aerion doesn't hear of it, that's the last thing he needs right now. The words rose in him all the same.
"How should one approach her," Valarr inquired, "if they wished to do it properly?" Ashford's brows lifted with amusement and then softened into something more considered. He knew better than to tease a prince, and perhaps he understood that Valarr was asking this in earnest, which was more than could be said for the rest of the buffoons at the feast.
"Gently," He finally advised. "Preferably without much of an audience. She'll speak openly when she feels safe to, but for that, she must have a feel for your character, so be honest. If you come on too boldly too early, she'll retreat."
Valarr nodded along, organising the information in his mind. "And her father? Would he take offence if a prince were to speak to his daughter?"
"Offence? No. He will take caution. He is protective, and attention from a prince can turn a girl's life upside down even without meaning to." Valarr could not argue with that. "But as long as you are respectful, he'll give you room."
Okay, he could do this. He's done harder things... maybe.
Valarr's gaze drifted toward the royal table this time. Daeron was away in his cups again. His father and uncle were the only ones who sat at the table. Aerion had chosen to eat alone, not wanting to sit with the mongrels, as he'd put it.
His father sat at ease but his eyes swept the hall... and caught his son looking. Baelor's brows rose slightly, then, with the smallest turn of his mouth, more a knowing curve than a smile, he inclined his head toward Valarr, a silent question.
The young prince felt heat rise beneath his collar and was faintly annoyed at how easily his father could see through him. He excused himself from Lord Ashford with a quick thanks and a courteous nod before crossing to the Royal table. He was careful to move as though he'd always intended it, but in truth his mind was stuck thinking of only one thing.
Mercifully, his father waiting until he was within the shelter of the table before he spoke. "You rode well, even with your mind wandering."
"My mind did not wander, father." Valarr would later swear on the Seven that he did not roll his eyes like a child that did not get their way.
Baelor hummed, completely unconviced, and took a slow drink of wine. "If you say so." Valarr stayed quiet, refusing the tease. He would not be dragged into boyish fluster with half the Realm in earshot. "Lord Ashford looked pleased with you. Did you praise his daughter's nameday, or interrogate him about his guests?"
Valarr met his father's eyes. There was only quiet amusement to be found in them; he had always been observant, especially when it came to his boys. One of his more infuriating qualities, Valarr decided in that moment.
"I spoke with him," Valarr said evenly.
"And?" Baelor asked, gesturing his right hand outwards.
The young prince's jaw tightened before he spoke, quieter now. "He says she is shy and doesn't take well to the usual sort of attention."
"A fair and sensible trait to have." Baelor nodded his head.
His fingers curled once against the edge of the table. "Men keep pressing themselves upon her as if pestering is a virtue."
His father regarded him for a long moment. "That displeases you."
"It is unseemly." Valarr stated firmly.
The elder prince's eyes warmed. "Yes, it is. Though, you seem to be considering your options to rectify it." There was no accusation in Baelor's tone, only a kind of gentle, knowing prodding that would've been unbearable had it come from anyone else. "You look as though you're weighing a campaign."
He let out a slow breath through his nose. "I am weighing how to speak to her without making her wish herself back in the stands."
"If she is as Ashford says, then do not make a spectacle of it. That is not your nature anyway. She won't be won by grand gestures." Valarr's throat tightened. He had heard his father speak of it before, in quieter moments: not only duty but the rare, stubborn hope of finding one who makes their world feel less like a board of carved pieces.
The one, Baelor had called it once, with a softness that had made Valarr look away, for he knew the man was thinking of his late wife.
"You have always spoken as if such a thing is real, a match made from interest." Valarr said, and could not keep the faint edge from his tone.
Baelor's smile was small. "It is. Rarely. And not always kindly. But yes, it can be found. Once you do find it, you must take it with both hands and don't let go for anything."
Valarr did not know this girl who had caught his eye, not truly. But it seems that something in him had stubbornly decided that this was not acceptable, that he at least needed to try even if nothing would come from it.
"Then I will speak to her properly, as a man with honour should." Baelor inclined his head, a wordless permission.
His mind was already moving, assembling pieces. A crowded tent simply would not do.
He would probably have to catch her outside, with a chaperone near enough to satisfy propriety but far enough to allow breath. She seemed like the type of woman who would enjoy stargazing or a simple wander to catch some air. He smoothed his sleeve once as if the motion could settle the restless energy in him.
The light of the morning came cool and pale, the kind of chill that made breath visible. The camp was quieter than it had been the night previously, at such an early time the drunken lords from the previous night are still sleeping off their cups.
Valarr dressed without fuss, no heavy riding armour yet, only soft apparel fit for a prince of the realm. His two-toned hair was faintly damp when he stepped from his lodgings, and the air woke him more sharply.
A single guard shadowed him at a respectful distance as he walked as if he had nowhere in particular to be, greeting a knight here and there. He paused by the practice yard long enough to seem purposeful.
In truth, he was hunting for a coincidence. He'd heard it from a squire the night before as idle chatter that she likes to take early morning walks to help her breathe. It wasn't meant to be significant but the prince had taken it as instruction.
He walked the paths on the edges of the camp where the paths were widest but kept his pace unhurried. It took an hour before his plan came to fruition. She was coming along the path between the outer tents, a cloak pulled close to hold off the chill. A maid walked a respectful few steps behind with her hands tucked into her sleeves.
She looked less braced than she had at the feast. More alive or more herself if it were even possible for Valarr who had never spoken to the Lady before to discern that.
Calling for her across the path would be a boyish thing to do, so he simply altered his course, casual, so that their paths would meet naturally.
Perfectly innocent, he told himself.
She noticed him when he was a few metres away. Her pace faltered slightly, from shock most likely, but she did not stop entirely. She dipped into a curtsy, quick, neat and perfect. "My Prince." Her maid followed in kind.
Valarr inclined his head in return, with what he hoped was a kind smile, offering her the respect her station deserved and perhaps a little extra. "My Lady."
A beat of silence followed, only filled by the soft rustle of leaves on the wind. Valarr had rehearsed this, once or twice, in the privacy of his own thoughts. All he had to do was give a small greeting, make conversation about the weather, maybe ask about how her family was doing. Something that let her reply without pressure of being judged, especially by a prince.
Instead what left his mouth was something like this.
"I saw you yesterday." He froze as soon as the words lingered in the air. Her brows lifted as though she did not expect him to be so forward, in truth neither did he.
She did not look put off though she looked as though she might ask a nervous question. Valarr cleared his throat at once, moving as swiftly as he would have to correct poor posture in a spar. "In the stands," he added much too quickly. "I mean, I noticed you in the stands."
That did not sound any better.
He felt his ears warm beneath his hair and cursed himself silently. Then, to his immense relief, the corner of her mouth turned as if she was trying not to smile. The prince had no way of knowing but she had realised after he continued that he meant nothing by his odd words, though his haste to rectify himself amused her.
"As opposed to... where else?" She asked, softly enough that it felt like a secret. Valarr blinked, then a small smile escaped him too. "Yes," he admitted, the two of them had never met prior to this of course and she had noticed his avid attention on her. "That is fair."
Her eyes flicked up and she held his gaze for a second longer before looking to his left, though he knew there was nothing there to look at. That was another thing that struck him, she did not seem to hold eye contact. Even with her father, though she did hold it longer then.
"It's quite alright. I wished to speak to you as well," Her words were careful but sincere. Valarr perked up at their content. "To congratulate you." She continued. "You rode very well."
The praise landed strangely, not like cheers from a large crowd did or flattery offered at court. This was honest.
"Thank you, my Lady. Frankly, I had thought my focus might have faltered."
Her eyes landed back on his and there may have been the urge to retreat there but she did not fall silent. She then looked towards the stables, and her voice warmed a fraction as she spoke. "Your horse is beautiful. Well bred, I imagine."
So she does like horses, Valarr's expression softened without his permission. "She is," he agreed. "She knows it as well, which is her greatest flaw."
His words earned him a small sound, half laugh, half breath, as if she had not expected a prince to speak of a horse of all things with affection.
"You like horses." Valarr said, mostly a statement but with the option to answer as a question, to offer her an easier path.
She nodded once. "Yes. Though, I've been told I have an affinity for most animals. I would have to agree."
Valarr took the opening carefully, mindful of Ashford's counsel. "Do you ride?"
Her fingers tightened briefly at the edge of her cloak. "Sometimes," She admitted, and then with more certainty. "Not as often as I'd like."
Valarr didn't pounce on it the wat other men might've, he did not turn it into a challenge, or an offer, or a boast about what he could do to provide or fix it. He simply nodded. "I understand that, the life of a noble man, or woman, isn't always kind to private habits. Too many opinions on what others should or should not do as well." He didn't need to point out that riding wasn't always considered a 'ladylike' activity, she'd likely been told that numerous times over in her life.
When Valarr looked back at her, he met her assessing gaze. Somewhat surprised he had labelled it so plainly. Other men she'd met had pretended they did not see the pressure at all, or worse, they acted as though the pressure was a compliment.
Valarr was a prince, pressure was probably his oldest companion she thought to himself. He was the heir of the heir. He was expected to be the perfect prince by many, and he withstood this even though he was a man. Princes didn't have to play by the rules the same way princesses do, and yet Valarr seemed to play by them anyway.
Her shoulders eased a fraction and her hands loosened their grip on her cloak. The maid behind her remained a respectful distance but the Lady no longer looked as though she were bracing for a blow from the conversation alone.
"When you do ride, what do you prefer? A fast horse, or a steady one?" Valarr asked with a gentle tone.
Her eyes shifted towards the stables as if she were envisaging the horse held inside, comparing their traits. "Steady." She ultimately decided. "Fast can be thrilling, yes, but that requires trust. Steady is honest, and safer."
Valarr gazed at her side profile. "You sound as though you've already thought about it."
"I think about most things," she admitted, and there was a hint of self-consciousness in the way she spoke, as if it were a flaw she'd been teased for. The she added, quickly. "Too much, sometimes."
He shook his head once. "It isn't too much, as long as it does not tire you."
She continued her slow pace, and wordlessly Valarr followed alongside, she took a glance at him as though weighing whether he was being truthful.
After another few steps, she spoke again, voice almost casual, perhaps too casual, as if she were trying to make her voice so small it would not sting if it landed poorly. "I was... a little nervous," she told him.
"Because of me?"
Her mouth tightened faintly, and looked down at the path ahead of them. "Not of you." she said. "Not truly." There was a pause before she continued. "Rumours travel far," She went on, lighter now. "Even to those who try not to listen."
Valarr's expression went still in a way that was practiced and automatic, she glanced up at him, catching the shift, and hurried to add on before he could take offence.
"About your cousin," she did not need to specify who, Aerion. "And... Prince Daeron, as well. He was-" she hesitated, choosing her words. "-unpredictable last night."
Meaning he was acting like a drunken fool. No surprise there. Valarr's jaw tightened, not at what she was saying of course, but the truth of it. He had spent years learning how to make other people's (usually his cousins) disasters appear smaller than they were. There was no point in pretending to her now.
"You needn't dress it so kindly," he said, looking down at his shoes. "He was drunk."
She showed some surprise at his plainness. It seemed to reassure her rather than unsettle her. "And Aerion..." she added, so quietly as though simply saying the name too loudly would summon trouble. "I had only heard things but my father prefers we keep our distance from... those that might think themselves above consequence."
"A sensible preference," Valarr said grimly, recounting his interactions with his cousin. "That is wise." She looked into his eyes for longer this time. She'd expected anger or at least irritation for her words and found none. "Aerion enjoys being talked about. Rumours are a kind of worship to him, even when it is unflattering. It's best not to feed it if possible."
Her lips pressed together. "And you?"
"Me?" Valarr felt his brows raise.
She tilted her head slightly, the gesture hesitant and small but brave nonetheless. "You are of the same blood." she said carefully. "People like to pretend that blood is destiny."
Something in his chest twisted, not pain exactly but an old irritation at being compared to someone else's sins. He didn't let it show as the irritation was not truly aimed at her. She was right to be hesitant. Targaryens had a record for each generation being worse than the last, it couldn't be denied that being of the dragon's blood seemed to doom them all.
Despite all the words he wished to say he kept it simple. "It isn't. I am more like my father than my cousins."
She nodded in response. That made sense afterall, Baelor was his father. Baelor had raised him. Baelor was good.
"Truthfully, I had worried you might share their sentiments. Though, I think I was wrong." Valarr focused on the latter of her speech.
"And now?" He asked, softly.
Her cheeks warmed faintly, and she looked away so that he could not witness the redness. "Now, I can see..." She searched for the appropriate word, then decided to say the first thing that came to mind. "You are nicer."
The prince blinked, before a small startled laugh left his lips. "Nicer." It might not've been what he was expecting but he'd take it.
She looked back at him, mistaking his tone and thinking that he'd taken offence or that she had misstepped. "I only- I mean it as a compliment, My Prince. You seem... more princely."
"More princely," Valarr repeated, there was amusement in his tone but also something far softer. "Than my cousins." Who are princes, he didn't need to add.
She winced. "I should not have said that."
Valarr shook his head slowly. "No, it's alright. I prefer honestly, truly."
The tension in her shoulders eased, and she exhaled a breath she may not have realised she was holding.
"I'm glad I've been able to speak to you. I was worried I might've made you uncomfortable." She gave a small, helpless shrug that Valarr could only describe as endearing.
"You did." She stated, before raising her hand and holding her thumb and index finger a small distance apart. "About this much." She added, now smiling wider with a teasing lilt. Her smile was more open, and just for a moment it changed her whole face. Then her expression calmed. "I am glad you spoke to me as well. It's been easier than I expected."
Valarr's chest loosened at her admission. He was careful not to stride ahead in his eagerness. "I am glad." He said, and meant it.
They walked a few more steps in quiet. Valarr let the silence exist without rushing to fill it, and she did not retreat into it the way she might have earlier. That alone felt like a kind of progress.
He glanced back, subtly.
Her maid remained at a respectful distance, as a maid ought, gaze lowered and dutiful. She seemed far more relaxed now, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. His guard, too, had slowed, lingering near a tent line as though he had found something of interest in the grass. Far enough away that words would blur.
He cleared his throat, suddenly aware that what he was about to ask was, by all reasonable measures, ridiculous.
"My lady," he began, then paused.
Her brows lifted slightly. "Yes?"
Valarr looked ahead at the path as though it might offer him courage. "When we are... in company," he said carefully, "it is proper that you call me my prince or Your Highness. I understand that."
She nodded once, calm, attentive.
"But-" Valarr hesitated, the smallest fracture in his composure. He recovered quickly. "But when we are not in company, when it is quiet, as it is now… would you be willing to call me by my name?"
Her steps slowed a fraction. Valarr immediately regretted the phrasing. It sounded too intimate. Too forward. Too much like a claim. Fuck, he thought to himself.
He added quickly, voice gentler, attempting to make it smaller so it would not frighten her. "Only if you wish to. Only when we are alone-" he corrected himself at once, remembering the maid behind her, the guard in the distance, propriety like a net between them. "-when we are private. When it would not put you at risk of tongues wagging."
She stopped walking entirely for a heartbeat, then took another step, slower now, as if she needed the movement to think. Valarr kept his eyes on the path, trying to give her the room to answer without feeling pinned beneath his gaze.
When she finally spoke, it was soft, almost careful. "Valarr," she said, as if trying the sound.
His name, in her voice, did something unreasonable to him. He turned his head before he meant to, and caught her looking at him, nervous, curious, gauging his reaction.
"It suits you," she added, quieter. "Better than 'my prince.' I think."
Valarr let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but not quite. "Good," he managed. "Because 'my prince' makes me feel as though I am being scolded by my father."
Her eyes widened, then she let out a small sound clearly not expecting him to say anything so... ordinary.
"It is not meant as a scolding," she said, amused now.
"I know," Valarr replied, the corner of his mouth lifting. "But it is difficult to be at ease when everyone is reminding you what you are."
The amusement in her expression softened into something thoughtful. She looked down at her hands, tucked into her cloak, then back up again with a little more courage than before.
"And what are you," she asked, quietly, "when no one is reminding you?"
Valarr felt the question land like the first touch of a hand, light, but meaningful.
For a moment he considered giving her something witty. Something princely. Instead, he answered simply.
"A man who likes a black horse too much," he said, and then, because he could not resist, "and who makes foolish plans to walk the same path as a lady who prefers the morning."
Her cheeks warmed again. She ducked her head, but the smile returned, unmistakable now.
"I thought it was a coincidence," she said, teasing.
"It was," Valarr replied smoothly. "A perfectly innocent one."
She laughed softly, and the sound was quiet enough not to carry, but it warmed him more than the morning sun ever could.
They continued walking, the path narrowing again between tents. A sleepy squire shuffled by in the opposite direction, rubbing at his eyes; Valarr offered him a brief nod, and the boy hurried past as if chased by dragons.
When they were alone again, Valarr spoke.
"And what should I call you?" he asked. "May I use your name as well?"
Her breath caught, just slightly, and her gaze flicked toward her maid behind her, then back to him.
"Yes," she said honestly. "Though only when we are in private."
Valarr's answer came quickly. "Of course." It felt like a small trust being placed into his hands, light as a feather and just as easy to harm if he grasped too tightly.
They walked a little farther with the camp slowly waking around them. Valarr kept his pace, careful not to crowd her, and careful not to look too pleased with himself.
He miserably failed at the latter.
He could feel it in the way his mouth kept threatening to curve into a smile, in the way his thoughts kept skipping ahead. She had said yes.
It was ridiculous, a tiny victory but it was also the most hope he'd felt in longer than he cared to admit.
They were nearing the point where she would inevitably have to turn back and Valarr would need to properly prepare for the day ahead. He didn't want to steal more of her morning or press to hard so he stopped briefly at the end of their walk.
Her name came from his mouth before he could hold it back. She turned to face him, expression a little shy but warm as well. "Yes, Valarr?" She asked, and the fact that she'd used his name without being prompted made his chest tighten. He hoped it didn't show.
"I should let you go. Your father must be looking for you."
"Yes. I should return."
"I am glad," Valarr said, choosing the words with care. "that you did not find me as dreadful as you feared."
Her lips parted, then her smile returned, small and genuine. "You're not dreadful at all." She said. "Perhaps, a little odd."
Valarr huffed a quiet laugh. "Odd?"
"Only a little." She smiled wider once more. "Besides, being odd is good. It makes you unique. Unforgettable."
Unforgettable. Valarr's heart skipped a few beats. That was good... right? That was promising.
"I will treasure it," He promised solemnly, to cover his true feelings, the amusement in her eyes brightened for a heartbeat. "If you walk again tomorrow morning," his tone lighter, "I will not pretend I am above another coincidence."
She nodded once. "Then perhaps... I will take the same path."
He bowed his head. "I will be grateful for my good fortune."
"Have a good day, Valarr." She finished softly.
"Have a good day," he replied and then because her maid was drawing closer. "My Lady."
She gave him one last look, then turned and continued on, cloak brushing dew from the grass.
Valarr stood where he was until she disappeared from sight. He turned to leave and touched two fingers to his mouth, as if to keep the smile from escaping too openly, he walked as if he had not just been unmade by a single conversation.
He had no way of knowing that she'd gone straight back to her private lodgings, avoiding her father completely, and that the instant she was alone she flung herself face-first into her pillow to muffle a delighted squeal while kicking her legs like a girl half her age.
Utterly and hopelessly charmed.
This might be a multiple part series.
Oscar Morgan, you have bewitched me body and soul. I've literally been working on this since seeing him for the first time. He slayed his miniscule amount of screentime and lines.
By the time Valarr decided the floor was no place for his wife, he was four cups deep in Arbor gold and far too pleased with the wisdom of his own thoughts.
The feast had begun innocently enough.
Music.
Candlelight.
Too many lords speaking too loudly.
His wife beside him in a gown the color of summer wine, stealing little things from his plate with the serene entitlement of a woman who knew perfectly well her husband would deny her nothing.
Valarr had been managing very well, he thought.
Perhaps a touch warmer than usual.
Perhaps more inclined to kiss her hand every time she reached for his cup.
Perhaps staring at her more than was strictly princely.
But otherwise, very well.
Then he saw her rise from her seat.
He watched as she stood, smoothing her skirts, clearly intending to cross the hall to speak to one of her ladies.
Valarr frowned.
The hall floor was stone.
Cold stone.
Hard stone.
Entirely unacceptable.
He looked down at her slippers.
Delicate little things.
Far too fine.
Then he looked back up at her with the grave concern of a man who had just discovered a threat no one else possessed the wit to recognize.
“My love,” he said.
His wife glanced down at him. “Yes?”
“You cannot walk there.”
She blinked. “Where?”
He pointed at the floor.
For one moment she only stared.
Across the table, Matarys rolled his eyes and slowly lowered his cup muttering "Oh no not again..".
“The floor?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“That is generally what people walk on.”
Valarr shook his head. “Not you.”
She bit the inside of her cheek. He could see it. “And why not me?”
“Because,” he said, lowering his voice as though revealing something very serious, “it is too hard.”
Matarys let out a strangled sound.
His wife’s eyes gleamed at once.
Oh, she was going to enjoy this.
“Too hard,” she repeated.
“For your feet.”
“My feet.”
Valarr nodded, deeply earnest. “They are small.”
The table went silent.
Then Matarys made a horrible choking noise and bent forward into one hand.
His wife looked dangerously delighted. “My prince, are you saying the floor is unworthy of me?”
Valarr considered.
Then, with all the solemn dignity of a drunken dragon prince, “Yes.”
That was the end of her composure.
She laughed so suddenly and so brightly that half the people nearest turned to stare.
Valarr only looked at her with soft devotion, entirely pleased to have caused it.
“My dove” he said quietly, as if this proved his point. “You should not be allowed on stone at all.”
“My gods,” Matarys muttered. “He is gone.”
Valarr ignored him and rose to his feet.
This was, unfortunately, where matters worsened.
Because instead of allowing his wife to take even a single step, he rounded the table, reached for her with complete confidence, and said, “Come here.”
She blinked up at him. “What?”
“I am carrying you.”
“No, you are not.”
“Yes.”
“Valarr.”
“My love,” he said patiently, as though she were the unreasonable one, “I have just explained the issue.”
“The issue,” she repeated, barely containing laughter.
“Yes. The floor.”
She was visibly shaking now, trying not to laugh in his face. “And your solution is to carry me across the hall.”
“My solution,” said Valarr, “is always to take care of you.”
Gods.
That should not have been as sweet as it was, said in that tone, in the middle of such nonsense.
His wife softened despite herself.
Too late.
Valarr had already slipped one arm behind her back and another beneath her knees.
“Valarr.”
“Do not worry.”
“I am not worried.”
“You are very light.”
That made her laugh again as he lifted her clean off the ground.
The hall erupted.
Not loudly, not indecorously, but in that scandalized ripple of stifled amusement that runs through noble company when a prince behaves in a way no one can quite criticize because it is too ridiculous and too devoted all at once.
His wife, now in his arms, looked up at him with helpless delight.
“This is absurd.”
“No,” Valarr said, beginning to walk, “this is husbandry.”
Matarys put his head on the table.
Daeron snorted wine through his nose.
One of the ladies by the musicians had gone pink trying not to laugh.
Even a stern old knight near the wall looked dangerously close to smiling.
Valarr noticed none of it.
He was too busy carrying his wife as though this were the most natural thing in the world.
He held her carefully, securely, one hand spread warm at her side. Every few steps he glanced down to make sure she was comfortable, as if he were conveying some priceless treasure.
Which, to him, he was.
“My sweeting,” she asked between giggles, “where exactly are you taking me?”
“To your lady.”
“She is only there.”
“Yes.”
“I could have walked.”
“You should not have had to.”
She actually covered her face with one hand.
Valarr looked wounded. “Are you embarrassed?”
“No,” she said, laughing against her fingers. “Only married.”
That pleased him enormously.
“Good.”
When he reached her lady at the far side of the hall, Valarr did not put his wife down immediately. Instead he looked at the stone floor with renewed suspicion.
His wife followed his gaze.
Then she looked back at him and, with disastrous sweetness, asked, “Are you still worried about my feet?”
“Yes.”
“You cannot hold me all night.”
Valarr frowned as if she had proposed something tragic. “Why not?”
Behind him, Matarys made a noise like a man in genuine pain.
His wife was laughing too hard to answer.
Valarr took this, apparently, as uncertainty rather than refusal and shifted her slightly higher in his arms.
“There,” he said. “Better.”
“My prince,” one of her ladies managed, very carefully, “I can take Her Grace now.”
Valarr looked at her.
Then at his wife.
Then back at the lady with unmistakable distrust.
“No.”
The lady blinked. “No?”
“She is comfortable.”
His wife was glowing now, cheeks flushed, smile soft and helpless and delighted all at once.
Valarr, seeing that smile, visibly melted.
“She likes it,” he said, with the self satisfaction of a man who had just won an argument no one else knew they were having.
His wife leaned up and kissed his cheek.
That was it.
That was all it took.
Valarr went still with pure, wine soaked joy.
Then he turned his face toward her just slightly, as if hoping for another.
She laughed and kissed him again, closer to the corner of his mouth this time.
Valarr looked so pleased with life that even the servants were smiling now.
“I think,” his wife whispered, “you may put me down.”
He considered this gravely.
“Will you be careful?”
“Yes.”
“Will you walk slowly?”
“Yes.”
“Will you avoid the crueler stones?”
At that she nearly slid from his arms laughing.
“Yes, my darling prince. I shall wage war against the floor with the utmost caution.”
That seemed to satisfy him.
Valarr lowered her at last, very slowly, as if she might break or float away. The moment her slippers touched the ground, his hands remained at her waist, steadying her unnecessarily.
“There,” he murmured. “Safe.”
She looked up at him, smiling in that fond, ruined way that only belonged to him.
“You are very silly tonight.”
Valarr touched her cheek. “Only because I love you.”
That quieted her for one small second.
Then, because she was still herself, she said, “Will you carry me back too?”
Valarr’s eyes lit at once. “Yes.”
Matarys made a despairing sound from across the room. “Do not encourage him.”
Too late.
Much too late.
By the end of the evening, Valarr had carried her three times.
Once to her ladies.
Once back to the table.
Once halfway to the door because he had decided the hall had grown even more dangerous after more wine.
Each time he did it with complete seriousness.
Each time she laughed and kissed his cheek.
Each time the court watched in helpless amusement as Prince Valarr Targaryen, who ought by rights to have been discussing policy or honor or anything remotely princely, instead carefully transported his wife from one side of the room to the other like a man personally tasked by the gods with guarding her from all harsh surfaces.
Later, when they were finally alone in their chambers and he was sitting on the edge of the bed with his doublet unlaced and his hair a little untidy, his wife stood between his knees and smiled down at him.
“You do know,” she said softly, “that the floor was perfectly harmless.”
Valarr, still warm with wine and love, slid his hands to her hips.
“I know.”
“You carried me anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked up at her as if the answer were so obvious it hardly needed saying.
“Because you asked for nothing,” he said. “And I wanted to give you everything.”
Her whole face softened.
Gods, he adored that look.
She touched his hair. “My sweet fool.”
Valarr smiled and pressed his cheek to her stomach. “Your fool.”
Then, because the wine still held him a little and because he was plainly not done being ridiculous, he looked up and asked, “Would you like me to carry you to bed too?”
She laughed so hard she had to sit down in his lap.
And Valarr, delighted with himself, wrapped his arms around her as though this had been his plan all along.
.............................
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Hiii, could you write headcanons of the Moriarty team asking reader to marry them, like something very fluffy
Worth staying for
They have killed men in cold blood. They have burned estates to the ground. They have lied to queens, manipulated governments, and stained their hands in colors that cannot be washed away.
They are not good people.
They know this. They carry it like stones in their pockets, every sin accounted for, every crime catalogued. They do not ask for forgiveness. They do not believe they deserve it.
And yet.
You look at them like they are worthy of love. You touch them like they are not poison. You stay, night after night, in the darkness they have built around themselves, and you do not flinch.
They have tried to push you away. They have tried to warn you, to frighten you, to make you understand what it means to love a monster.
You have refused to leave.
And so, one by one, they come to a terrifying realization: they want to keep you. Forever. Not as a secret, not as a comfort, but as a partner. A spouse. Someone to come home to. Someone to grow old with,if they are lucky enough to grow old.
The thought terrifies them more than any enemy ever has.
But they ask anyway.
William James Moriarty
The Realization:
William had always viewed marriage as a strategy. A contract between families. A way to secure bloodlines and alliances. Love, if it existed at all, was an inconvenient variable that complicated otherwise elegant equations.
He had never imagined it for himself.
His life was a countdown. A slow, deliberate walk toward an execution he had already accepted. He would dismantle the corrupt class system of Britain, and then he would die,by Sherlock Holmes's hand, by the state's noose, by his own if necessary. There was no room in that timeline for a spouse. No room for forever.
But then you came.
It was not love at first sight. William did not believe in such things. It was a slow accumulation of small moments,a hand on his shoulder when he had been working too long, a cup of tea placed just within reach, a quiet presence in the corner of his study that made the silence feel less like loneliness and more like peace.
The moment he knew came on a night he had tried very hard to forget.
A mission had gone wrong. A nobleman they had been targeting had been more guarded than anticipated. William had taken a knife to the ribs,not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to hurt. He had made it back to the manor, left a trail of blood across the marble floors, and collapsed in his study.
He had not called for help. He never did.
But you found him anyway.
He did not remember much of that night. He remembered pain, white-hot and consuming. He remembered Louis's voice, sharp with fear. He remembered Albert's hands pressing bandages to his side.
But most of all, he remembered you.
You were there. You stayed. When Louis had been sent away to calm down, when Albert had been called to handle the aftermath, you remained. You sat beside his bed, holding his hand, dabbing the sweat from his forehead, reading aloud from a book you knew he loved.
He drifted in and out of consciousness. Each time he woke, you were there. Your voice. Your touch. Your stubborn, unwavering presence.
On the third day, when the fever broke and the pain faded to a dull ache, he opened his eyes and found you asleep in the chair beside him. Your hand was still wrapped around his. Your face was pale with exhaustion. There were dark circles under your eyes.
He watched you breathe.
And he thought: I want to wake up to this face every morning for the rest of my life.
The thought was so sharp, so unexpected, that it stole his breath.
He did not want to die anymore. Not completely. He wanted to live. He wanted to come home to you. He wanted to watch you grow old. He wanted to argue with you about dinner, and laugh with you in the garden, and hold your hand when the nightmares came.
He wanted to marry you.
It was, he realized, the first thing he had ever wanted purely for himself.
The Preparation:
The realization did not immediately translate into action. William was not a man who rushed into anything. He spent weeks,months, even,turning the idea over in his mind, examining it from every angle, searching for the flaw he must have missed.
He found none.
The first thing he did was talk to Louis.
Not for permission. William did not need permission. But Louis was his brother, his other half, the person who knew him better than anyone in the world. If Louis objected, William would listen.
He found Louis in the kitchen, as always, kneading bread with those steady, capable hands.
"I am going to marry Y/N," William said.
Louis's hands stopped moving. For a long moment, he was perfectly still.
Then he looked up, and his scarred face broke into something William had not seen in years: a genuine, unguarded smile.
"It's about time," Louis said.
The second thing William did was choose the ring.
He designed it himself, working late into the night, sketching and erasing and sketching again. He was not an artist,his talents lay in mathematics and strategy,but he knew what he wanted.
The band would be silver, not gold. Gold was too flashy, too noble, too much like the world he was trying to destroy. Silver was humble. Silver was honest. Silver was you.
The stone would be a sapphire. Blue, like the sky just before dawn. Blue, like the moments of peace he found in your presence. Blue, like the hope he had thought himself incapable of feeling.
He commissioned Von Herder to make it. The blind genius grumbled about the interruption, but when William explained what he wanted,the weight, the texture, the way it should catch the light,Von Herder grew quiet.
"For her," Von Herder said. It was not a question.
"For her," William confirmed.
Von Herder nodded. "I will make it perfect."
He did. Three weeks later, he placed the finished ring in William's palm. William could not speak. He simply held it, feeling the cool weight of it, imagining it on your finger.
The third thing William did was choose the location.
It had to be somewhere meaningful. Somewhere that represented them,not the Lord of Crime and his accomplice, but William and you. Two people who had found something rare in the darkness.
He chose the garden.
Not the formal garden at the front of the manor, with its manicured hedges and pristine flowerbeds. The hidden garden at the back, overgrown and wild, where you had spent countless afternoons reading while he graded papers. The garden where you had first held his hand without him having to ask. The garden where he had first let himself cry in front of another person.
He spent a week tending it himself. He pruned the roses, pulled the weeds, hung paper lanterns in the trees. He did not let anyone help. This was his gift to you,not the proposal itself, but the preparation. The proof that he was willing to work for you.
The fourth thing William did was write his speech.
He wrote seventeen drafts. He memorized none of them.
The words would not come. Every time he tried to articulate what you meant to him, the language felt inadequate. How could he explain that you had saved him? That you had made him want to live? That you were the first good thing in his life that he had not had to destroy?
He gave up on the drafts. He decided to speak from his heart.
It was the most terrifying decision he had ever made.
The Proposal:
He chose a spring evening, when the wisteria was blooming and the air smelled like honeysuckle and rain. The sun had just set, leaving the sky that perfect shade of blue-purple that exists only for a few minutes between day and night.
He had asked you to meet him in the garden after dinner. "I have something to show you," he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. You had looked at him curiously but had not pressed for details.
You trusted him. Of course you did. You had always trusted him.
He arrived early. He lit the lanterns, checked the bench, smoothed his waistcoat for the hundredth time. His hands were shaking. William James Moriarty, the greatest criminal mind of his generation, the man who had orchestrated the deaths of dozens without a flicker of hesitation,his hands were shaking.
He heard your footsteps on the gravel path. He turned.
You came around the corner, and you stopped.
Your eyes widened as you took in the lanterns, the flowers, the care he had taken. "William," you breathed. "What is all this?"
He could not speak. His voice had fled entirely.
You walked toward him slowly, your gaze moving from the lanterns to his face. "You did all this?"
He nodded.
"For me?"
He nodded again.
You reached him. You stood close enough that he could feel the warmth of you, smell the faint scent of the soap you used. Your eyes searched his face, looking for an explanation.
He took your hands.
His palms were sweaty. He hoped you did not notice. You probably did. You noticed everything.
"Before I met you," he began, "I had accepted something about myself. Something I thought was unchangeable."
Your brow furrowed. You did not interrupt.
"I believed I was a tool," he continued. "A weapon designed to dismantle a broken system. I believed that when my work was done, I would be discarded,by the world, by history, by my own hand. That was the plan. That was the only plan."
He lifted one hand to cup your cheek. You leaned into his touch instinctively.
"Then you came. And you did not try to save me. You did not try to change me. You did not lecture me about my sins or beg me to repent. You simply... stayed."
Your eyes were shining now. He pressed on.
"You stayed when I was cold. You stayed when I was cruel. You stayed when I could not even look at myself in the mirror. You brought me tea at midnight. You held my hand when the nightmares came. You sat in silence beside me for hours, asking nothing, expecting nothing, just... being there."
He swallowed hard. His throat was tight.
"I have killed people, Y/N. I have ruined families. I have burned down the world and called it justice. And I will never be sorry for those things—because they needed to happen. But I am sorry that you fell in love with a man like me. I am sorry that I cannot give you a simple life. I am sorry that every day you spend at my side is a day you risk becoming a target."
Your hand came up to cover his, still pressed to your cheek.
"I am not sorry you are here," you said quietly. "I have never been sorry."
He closed his eyes. For a moment, he simply breathed.
Then he opened them again.
"You are the only good thing in my life that I did not have to destroy to obtain. You came to me freely. You stay freely. And I... I do not deserve you. I know that. But I want to spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you anyway."
He released your hands. He stepped back.
He got down on one knee.
The gravel bit into his knee. He did not care. The lantern light caught the sapphire as he drew the ring from his pocket, holding it up to you.
"Not the Lord of Crime," he said. "Not the Professor. Not the monster the newspapers write about. Just... Liam. Your Liam. If you will have me."
His voice broke on the last word.
"I love you. I have loved you since the first time you fell asleep in my study, curled up in that chair, waiting for me to finish work. I loved you when you stitched my wounds without flinching. I loved you when you argued with me about dinner. I loved you when you laughed,really laughed, not the polite kind, the kind that makes your whole face light up.
"I love you. And I want to marry you. I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want to fall asleep with you every night. I want to argue about stupid things and make up and grow old and grey and ridiculous together.
"I know I cannot promise you safety. I know I cannot promise you peace. The work I do will always be dangerous, and the people who hate me will always be looking for ways to hurt me, and being with me means being in the line of fire.
"But I can promise you this: I will never stop choosing you. Not when it is hard. Not when it is dangerous. Not when the world tries to tear us apart. I will choose you, every day, for the rest of my life.
"So I am asking you. Not as a strategist, not as a revolutionary, but as a man who loves you more than he thought himself capable of loving anything.
"Will you marry me?"
He held the ring up to you, the sapphire glowing like a captured piece of the evening sky.
His heart was pounding. His hands were shaking. His eyes were bright with tears he refused to shed.
...
Albert James Moriarty
The Realization:
Albert had spent his entire life in service to others.
First to his birth family,a family he had grown to despise, whose cruelty and corruption had turned his stomach long before he was old enough to understand why. Then to William, the orphan boy with the eyes of a prophet, whose vision for a better world had given Albert something to believe in. Then to the cause itself, the slow, bloody dismantling of the British class system.
He had never expected to keep anything for himself.
Love, marriage, a family of his own,these were luxuries for people who had not burned their childhood home to the ground with their parents still inside. These were dreams for people whose hands were not stained with the blood of their own blood.
He had made peace with that. Or so he told himself.
Then you came.
You were not part of the plan. You had not been recruited, cultivated, or manipulated. You had simply appeared,a friend of a friend, a guest at a dinner party, a face in the crowd that he had not been able to look away from.
He had tried to push you away. He had been cold, distant, deliberately boring. He had told himself it was for your own good. You deserved someone who was not broken. Someone who could love you without guilt.
You had not listened.
The moment he knew came on an ordinary Tuesday.
He had been in his study, drowning in paperwork, when you had appeared with a tray of tea. Nothing unusual. You did this often.
But this time, you did not leave.
You sat down on the floor by his desk,not on the chair, not on the sofa, but on the floor, like a child,and you began to sort through a basket of tangled embroidery thread you had found somewhere.
He had watched you, bemused. "What are you doing?"
"Sorting," you said, not looking up. "You seemed stressed. I thought you might need company."
"I am fine."
"You are lying."
He had opened his mouth to argue, but you had simply held up a spool of blue thread and said, "Is this navy or indigo? I can never tell."
He had told you it was indigo. You had thanked him. And then you had continued sorting, humming softly under your breath, while he returned to his paperwork.
He had not been able to concentrate. He had kept looking up, watching your hands move through the tangled threads, watching your face in the lamplight, watching the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
And he had thought: I want to watch you do this forever.
Not the sorting. Not the thread. You. Existing in his space. In his life. Making the ordinary moments feel extraordinary simply by being there.
He had realized, with a start, that he was smiling. Actually smiling. Not his diplomatic smile, not his charming nobleman smile, but a real one,soft and unguarded and entirely for you.
You had looked up and caught him. "What?"
"Nothing," he had said. "I just... I am glad you are here."
You had smiled,that warm, open smile that made his chest ache,and gone back to your sorting.
He had watched you for a long time after that.
And he had known, with absolute certainty, that he wanted to marry you.
The Preparation:
Albert did not rush into action. He was a planner, a strategist, a man who weighed every decision against a thousand possible outcomes. Marriage was not a decision to be made lightly,especially not marriage to someone like him.
He spent weeks thinking about it. Turning it over in his mind. Searching for the flaw he must have missed.
He found none.
The first thing he did was talk to William.
Not for permission,Albert had never needed permission. But for guidance. William was the closest thing Albert had to a confessor, the only person who truly understood the weight of what they had done.
"I am going to ask Y/N to marry me," Albert said.
William looked up from his papers. For a moment, his crimson eyes were unreadable.
Then he smiled. It was a small smile, barely there, but it reached his eyes.
"She is good for you," William said. "She makes you softer. Less like a sword and more like a shield."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It is the highest compliment I can give."
Albert nodded. He had expected nothing less.
The second thing Albert did was acquire the ring.
He visited seventeen jewelers before he found what he was looking for. He did not want something flashy,that was not you. He did not want something expensive for the sake of expense,that was not him.
He wanted something that meant something.
He found it in a small shop off Bond Street, run by an elderly woman who reminded him of no one. The ring was antique, Victorian, rose gold. The diamond was small, modest, surrounded by tiny forget-me-nots carved into the band.
"Forget-me-nots," the woman said, watching him stare at it. "For remembrance. For love that outlasts memory."
Albert thought of his birth parents, whose faces he was already beginning to forget. He thought of the fire, the smoke, the way his mother had screamed. He thought of the guilt he carried, the guilt he would always carry.
And he thought of you. The way you looked at him like he was not a monster. The way you held his hand when the nightmares came. The way you remembered the small things,his favorite tea, the book he had mentioned wanting to read, the date of his mother's death even though he had never asked you to remember.
He bought the ring. He did not haggle. He paid three times the asking price and left before the woman could thank him.
The third thing Albert did was choose the location.
This was difficult. Albert's life was lived in shadows,MI6 offices, secret meeting rooms, the cold halls of power. There were few places that held meaning for him that were not stained with blood or politics.
He chose the rooftop.
It was where he went when he could not sleep, when the weight of his choices pressed down on his chest until he could not breathe. The rooftop was his place,his alone. No one else knew he went there.
Until you.
You had found him there one night, two years into your relationship. It had been raining. He had been standing at the edge, looking down at the street below, wondering what it would feel like to fall.
You had not asked what he was doing. You had not lectured him or begged him to step back. You had simply sat down on the wet rooftop, opened your umbrella, and said, "It is cold up here. Come sit with me."
He had sat. He had taken the umbrella from you, holding it over both your heads. And he had talked,really talked, for the first time in years. About the fire. About his parents. About the guilt that gnawed at him every single day.
You had listened. You had not judged. You had simply held his hand and stayed.
The rooftop became your place after that. Your sanctuary. The one place where Albert did not have to be the Count, or M, or any of the other masks he wore. He could just be Albert,broken, remorseful, and entirely himself.
He would propose to you there.
The fourth thing Albert did was prepare his speech.
He was a master of words. He could lie to Parliament, charm foreign dignitaries, manipulate the press with a single sentence. But the truth,the simple, terrifying truth of how much he loved you,stuck in his throat.
He practiced in the mirror, alone, at three in the morning.
He practiced while shaving, while dressing, while riding to work.
He never got it right.
In the end, he decided to stop practicing. He would say what was in his heart. If his voice broke, so be it. If he cried, so be it. You had seen him cry before. You had never held it against him.
The Proposal:
He chose a clear night, when the stars were visible through London's usual haze and the air was crisp with the promise of autumn. He had asked you to join him on the rooftop,"just for a moment," he said, "I want to show you something."
You had climbed up after him, wrapping your arms around yourself against the cold. He had draped his coat over your shoulders without a word.
"Albert," you said, looking around. "There is nothing up here."
"I know," he said.
He took a breath. Then another.
"I have spent my entire life serving others," he began. "My family, before I burned them. William, after. The cause. The mission. I have never... chosen anything for myself. Not really."
You turned to face him, your expression shifting from confusion to something softer, something that made his heart clench.
"I thought that was my role," he continued. "To serve. To sacrifice. To exist in the background of other people's stories. I made peace with that. I told myself I did not deserve more."
He reached for your hands. They were cold. He held them between his own, rubbing his thumbs over your knuckles, trying to warm them.
"Then you came. And you did not ask me to be anything other than what I am. You did not demand that I change, or repent, or explain myself. You just... saw me. The real me. The one I hide from everyone else."
Your eyes were shining. He pressed on.
"You saw the guilt. The shame. The nights I cannot sleep because I can still hear the fire. You saw all of it, and you did not run. You stayed. You held my hand. You brought me tea and sat with me in the dark and never once made me feel like I was too much."
He swallowed hard.
"I do not know how to be happy, Y/N. I am not sure I ever learned. The part of me that could have been happy died in that fire, I think. Or maybe it was never there to begin with."
You opened your mouth to protest. He squeezed your hands gently.
"But I think... I think I could learn. With you. If you will teach me."
He released your hands. He stepped back.
He got down on one knee.
The rooftop gravel bit into his trousers. He did not care. The stars above were bright, indifferent, beautiful. He hoped you would remember them.
"I have nothing to offer you but myself," he said. "And I know that is not much. I am broken, Y/N. I am stained. I have done things that would make your blood run cold. I will never be the husband you deserve,the kind who sleeps peacefully, who laughs easily, who does not wake up screaming from nightmares about fire."
He reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around the ring.
"But I am yours. Every broken piece. Every stain. Every dark corner of my soul. Yours. Completely. Irrevocably. For as long as you will have me."
He held out the ring. The forget-me-nots glinted in the starlight, tiny and perfect.
"I love you. I loved you when you sat on the wet rooftop with me, not asking questions, just being there. I loved you when you organized my bookshelves because you knew I could not find anything. I loved you when you fell asleep on my shoulder during a carriage ride, and I sat perfectly still for an extra hour because I did not want to wake you.
"I love you. And I want to marry you. I want to wake up next to you and make you coffee and argue about whose turn it is to do the dishes. I want to hold your hand when we are old and grey and ridiculous. I want to spend the rest of my life trying to deserve the way you look at me.
"I know I cannot promise you an easy life. I know there will be danger, and fear, and nights when you wonder if I will come home. I cannot promise you safety. I cannot promise you peace.
"But I can promise you this: I will never lie to you. I will never hide from you. I will never make you feel like you are anything less than the most important person in my world. Because you are. You are.
"So I am asking you. Not as the Count. Not as M. Not as any of the masks I wear. But as Albert,the man who loves you more than he thought himself capable of loving anything.
"Will you marry me?"
He held the ring up to you, the rose gold warm in the starlight.
His heart was pounding. His hands were steady,they were always steady,but his heart was not.
...
Louis James Moriarty
The Realization:
Louis had never imagined marriage.
His entire existence revolved around William,protecting him, serving him, ensuring his survival. Love was a luxury he could not afford. Romance was a distraction that could get his brother killed.
He had told himself this for years. He had believed it.
Then you came.
You were not supposed to matter. You were a variable Louis had not accounted for, a crack in the careful architecture of his life. He had tried to ignore you, to push you away, to make you understand that there was no room for you in his world.
You had refused to leave.
The moment he knew came on a morning like any other.
He had been in the kitchen,his kitchen, the place he guarded jealously, the one domain where he was unequivocally in charge. You had come in while he was preparing breakfast, and instead of sitting at the table like a normal person, you had picked up a knife and started chopping vegetables.
He had frozen. "What are you doing?"
"Helping," you said, not looking up.
"I do not need help."
"I know. But I want to help anyway."
He had stood there, watching you, waiting for you to make a mistake. You did not. Your knife work was precise, efficient, almost as good as his own. You had been paying attention. You had learned.
When you finished, you looked up and caught him staring. "What?"
"Nothing," he had said, turning away. "The onions are uneven."
You had looked down at the neat pile of chopped onions. "They are perfect and you know it."
He had not replied. But he had not been able to stop thinking about it. About the way you had moved in his space without trying to take it over. The way you had helped without making him feel inadequate. The way you had looked at him,not with pity, not with fear, but with something warm and steady and entirely disarming.
He had realized, standing there in his kitchen surrounded by the smell of onions and coffee, that he wanted you there every morning.
Not because you were useful. Not because you made his life easier. But because you made his life lighter. You made the silence feel less like loneliness and more like companionship. You made him feel like he was allowed to want things for himself.
He wanted to marry you.
The thought terrified him. Marriage meant vulnerability. It meant someone to lose. And Louis had already lost so much,his parents, his childhood, the sense of safety that normal people took for granted.
But for you... for you, he would risk it.
The Preparation:
Louis did not tell anyone about his plan. Not at first.
He was not ashamed,he was afraid. If he told someone, it would become real. And if it became real, he could fail.
And Louis could not bear to fail at this.
The first thing he did was talk to William.
He waited until they were alone, until the manor was quiet and the rest of the household was asleep. He found William in his study, as always, surrounded by papers and candlelight.
"I am going to ask Y/N to marry me," Louis said.
William looked up. For a long moment, he simply stared at his brother.
Then he smiled,that rare, genuine smile that he reserved only for Louis.
"I was wondering when you would say that," William said.
"You knew?"
"I have known for months. You look at her the way you used to look at the stars when we were children. Like she is something beautiful and far away that you are afraid to reach for."
Louis looked away. His scarred cheek burned beneath his bangs.
"Do not be afraid," William said softly. "She loves you. Anyone with eyes can see it."
Louis nodded. He could not speak.
The second thing Louis did was choose the ring.
He did not want anything extravagant. Extravagance was not who he was, and it was not who you were. He wanted something simple. Honest. Something that would not catch on your clothing or snag in your hair.
He spent weeks looking. He visited jewelers and pawn shops and antique markets, searching for something that felt right.
He found it in a small shop in a part of London where no one asked questions. The ring was silver,thin, delicate, adorned with a a small dark purple stone.No engravings. Just a simple band, smooth and warm.
"It belonged to a woman who was married for fifty years," the shopkeeper said. "Her husband gave it to her when they were young and poor. She never took it off."
Louis held the ring in his palm. It was light. Almost weightless.
He bought it. He did not haggle. He paid what the shopkeeper asked and left quickly, before anyone could see the expression on his face.
The third thing Louis did was choose the location.
This was the hardest part.
Louis's life had no happy places. His childhood was hunger and cold. His adolescence was fire and blood. His adulthood was service and violence. There was no garden, no rooftop, no meaningful bench where fond memories lived.
So he decided to make a place.
He chose the kitchen.
Not romantic, perhaps. Not picturesque. But the kitchen was where Louis felt most like himself. Where he was not a killer, not a guardian, not a shadow. Where he was simply... Louis. The cook. The caretaker. The man who expressed love through flour and sugar and careful, patient hands.
It was also where you had first broken through his walls.
He remembered that day clearly. You had come into the kitchen while he was baking,a rare moment of vulnerability, a hobby he did not usually share with others. You had not commented. You had not made it weird. You had simply pulled up a stool and watched.
When he had finished, you had asked, "Can I try?"
He had handed you a piece of bread. You had eaten it, closed your eyes, and said, "This is the best thing I have ever tasted."
He had known, in that moment, that you were not lying. You never lied to him.
He would propose in the kitchen. Surrounded by the warmth of the stove and the smell of fresh bread. Surrounded by the memory of every meal he had ever made for you, every quiet morning you had spent together, every moment of peace you had given him.
The fourth thing Louis did was prepare his speech.
This was the most difficult thing he had ever done.
Louis was not good with words. He never had been. His love was shown, not spoken,in the meals he prepared, the clothes he mended, the way he stood between you and danger without being asked.
But he wanted to tell you. He wanted you to hear it, just once, in words.
He practiced while he cooked. He muttered to himself over pots and pans, forgetting and remembering, starting over and over.
In the end, he decided to keep it simple. He would say what was in his heart. If his voice broke, so be it. If he cried, so be it. You had seen him cry before. You had never held it against him.
He never got it right.
The Proposal:
He chose a quiet evening, when the rest of the household was otherwise occupied and the kitchen was empty. He had cooked your favorite meal,everything from scratch, everything perfect, everything made with hands that had killed more times than he could count.
You came when he called. You always came.
You sat at the small table in the corner of the kitchen,not the formal dining room, not the garden. The kitchen. Just the two of you, surrounded by the warmth of the stove and the smell of rosemary.
You ate. You talked. You laughed at something he said,something stupid, probably, he could not remember what. He was too nervous to remember anything except the shape of your smile.
When the meal was finished, when the plates were cleared and the candles were burning low, Louis stood up.
He walked to where you sat. He pulled out your chair. He got down on one knee.
The kitchen floor was cold. He did not care.
"I am not good with words," he began. His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. "You know that. I have never been... easy. To love. I know I am cold. I know I am distant. I know I push people away before they can leave me."
Your eyes were wide. Your hand had gone to your mouth.
"I have spent my entire life being afraid," he continued. "Afraid of losing William. Afraid of failing the mission. Afraid of being useless, being forgotten, being left behind. I have built walls around myself so high and so thick that I thought no one would ever climb them."
He reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around the ring.
"Then you came. And you did not climb the walls. You sat down at the bottom of them and waited. You brought me tea and sat with me in the silence and never once demanded that I let you in."
His voice cracked. He did not try to hide it.
"You waited. For months. For years. You waited while I pushed you away again and again. You waited while I told myself I did not deserve you. You waited while I learned,slowly, painfully, against every instinct I had,that maybe I was allowed to want something for myself."
He held out the ring. The silver band caught the candlelight, warm and simple.
"I want you, Y/N. I want you in my kitchen every morning. I want you in my bed every night. I want you in my life,all of it, the dark parts and the light parts, the parts I am proud of and the parts I will never forgive myself for."
He looked up at you. His eyes were bright.
"I cannot promise you an easy life. I cannot promise you safety, or peace, or any of the things normal husbands promise their wives. My life is dangerous. My hands are stained. There will be nights when I do not come home, and you will be afraid, and I will not be there to hold you."
He swallowed hard.
"But I can promise you this: I will never leave you. Not if you are sick. Not if you are angry. Not if the world burns down around us. I will never leave you. I will protect you with every breath in my body. I will provide for you with every skill I possess. I will love you,quietly, imperfectly, stubbornly,for the rest of my life."
He held the ring up to you.
"I love you. I loved you when you chopped vegetables in my kitchen and pretended not to notice me watching. I loved you when you sat with me in the dark and did not ask questions. I loved you when you touched my scar for the first time and did not flinch.
"I love you. And I want to marry you. I want to wake up next to you and make you breakfast and argue about whose turn it is to do the dishes. I want to hold your hand when we are old and grey and ridiculous. I want to spend the rest of my life being yours.
"So I am asking you. Not as William's brother. Not as a guardian or a killer. But as Louis—the man who loves you more than he ever thought himself capable of loving anyone.
"Will you marry me?"
He held the ring up to you, the silver warm in the candlelight.
His heart was pounding. His hands were steady,they were always steady,but his heart was not.
...
Sebastian Moran
The Realization:
Sebastian Moran had never considered himself marriage material.
He drank too much. Gambled too much. He had more blood on his hands than most soldiers saw in a lifetime. He was rough, crass, and emotionally constipated. Who would want to marry that?
But you did. Somehow, impossibly, you did.
The moment he knew came after a fight.
Not a big fight,a stupid one. He had come home drunk (again), and you had confronted him (again), and he had said something cruel (again). He could not even remember what it was now,something about you not understanding him, probably, something designed to hurt.
You had left the room in tears. He had sat in his armchair, staring at the wall, hating himself.
An hour later, you came back.
You sat down beside him, took his hand, and said, "I am not leaving."
"Why not?" he had asked, his voice hollow.
"Because you are sick," you said. "Not evil. Sick. And sick people do not get better alone."
He had broken down. Right there, in his armchair, surrounded by empty bottles and the smell of gunpowder. He had cried like a child, and you had held him, and you had not let go.
In the morning, he had woken up with you still beside him.
Your hand was still in his. Your head was on his shoulder. You had stayed. You had slept in that uncomfortable armchair just to be near him.
And he had thought: I want to wake up like this every day for the rest of my life.
That was when he knew.
The Preparation:
Moran did not prepare with elegance. He did not prepare with grace. He prepared with characteristic chaos and a complete lack of subtlety.
The first thing he did was buy the ring.
He had no idea what he was doing. He walked into the first jewelry store he saw, pointed at a ring, and said, "That one."
The clerk asked about size, metal preference, stone quality. Moran stared at him blankly.
"Just... the pretty one," he said.
The ring was ridiculous,ostentatious, huge diamond, the kind of ring that screamed "new money and bad taste." Moran looked at it, grimaced, and bought it anyway.
Then he showed it to Moneypenny.
She laughed for five minutes straight.
"Moran," she said, wiping her eyes, "she will hate this."
"She will?"
"She is not a magpie, you idiot. She does not want to blind people. She wants something meaningful."
Moran returned the ring. He spent the next two weeks quietly asking people,Moneypenny, Louis, even Fred,what kind of ring you might like. He wrote nothing down. He forgot everything.
In the end, he chose a simple gold band with a small (your favorite gem). Your favorite color. He had remembered that, at least.
The second thing Moran did was choose the location.
His first instinct was a pub. He dismissed that almost immediately (even he knew that was a bad idea). His second instinct was a racetrack. He dismissed that too.
He thought about places that mattered to you. Places where you had been happy.
He chose the park where you had had your first picnic.
It was not fancy,just a small green space in a working-class neighborhood, surrounded by plane trees and the sound of children playing. You had brought a basket of food (most of which Moran had eaten), and you had talked for hours about nothing and everything.
You had told him about your childhood. About your dreams. About the things that scared you.
He had told you about Afghanistan.
He had not meant to. The words had just... spilled out. The ambush. The heat. The way his men had died, one by one, while he watched. The way he had crawled through the desert for three days, half-dead, thinking of nothing but revenge.
You had listened. You had not judged. You had taken his hand and held it.
He would propose there.
The third thing Moran did was prepare his speech.
This was the hardest part. Moran was not a speaker. He was a shooter. Words were not his weapon.
He practiced in the mirror. He practiced in the shower. He practiced while cleaning his guns.
He forgot his speech countless times.
In the end, he decided to stop practicing. He would say what was in his heart. If his voice broke, so be it. If he cried, so be it. You had seen him cry before. You had never held it against him.
The Proposal:
He chose a Saturday afternoon, when the park was quiet and the light was golden and the plane trees were dropping their leaves like confetti. He told you he wanted to go for a walk,nothing special, just... a walk.
You walked together, your hand in his, talking about nothing. Moran barely heard you. His heart was hammering so loud he could feel it in his throat.
He led you to the tree. The same tree. The one with the twisted trunk and the low-hanging branches.
You stopped, looking around. "Moran? This is where we-"
"Yeah," he said. "I know."
He let go of your hand. He turned to face you.
His hands were shaking. Sebastian Moran, deadliest sniper in England, veteran of Afghanistan, killer of dozens,his hands were shaking like a schoolboy's.
"I am not good at this," he said. His voice was rough, almost angry. "I am not good at... feelings. Or words. Or any of the soft shit that normal people do."
You did not interrupt. You just watched him, your eyes soft.
"You know what I am. You know what I have done. You have seen me at my worst,drunk, violent, pathetic. You have seen me cry. You have seen me break. And you are still here."
He laughed, a broken sound.
"I do not know why. I do not understand what you see in me. But I stopped questioning it a long time ago. I just... accepted it. Accepted you."
He reached into his pocket. His fingers close around the ring.
"You are the first good thing in my life that I did not have to earn through blood. You did not come to me because I saved you, or because I paid you, or because you owed me a debt. You came to me because you wanted to. You stay because you want to. Every single day, you choose me. And I... I do not know how to be worthy of that. But I want to try."
He got down on one knee. The grass was damp. He did not care.
"I have spent my whole life running. From my family, from my past, from the memories of that desert. I have drowned myself in whiskey and cards and women because I did not know how else to survive. I thought that was all I deserved. That was all I was good for."
He held out the ring. The emerald caught the sunlight, glowing like a small green star.
"Then you came. And you did not try to fix me. You did not try to save me. You just... sat with me. In the dark. In the silence. You held my hand while I cried and did not make me feel small for it.
"You made me want to be better. Not for you,for me. Because for the first time in my life, I looked in the mirror and saw someone worth improving.
"I love you. I loved you when you scrubbed the mud off my boots without being asked. I loved you when you held me after my nightmares and did not flinch at the things I said in my sleep. I loved you when you argued with me about my drinking,not because you were trying to control me, but because you were scared for me.
"I love you. And I want to marry you. I want to wake up next to you and make you coffee and listen to you complain about the weather. I want to hold your hand when we are old and grey and ridiculous. I want to spend the rest of my life proving to you that choosing me was not a mistake.
"I know I am not easy to love. I know I am broken in ways that might never fully heal. I know there will be bad days,days when I drink too much, days when I push you away, days when the memories are too loud and I cannot find my way back to you.
"But I can promise you this: I will never stop trying. I will never stop choosing you. I will never stop being grateful that you looked at a man like me and saw someone worth staying for.
"So I am asking you. Not as the Colonel. Not as the sniper. Not as any of the other masks I wear. But as Sebastian,the man who loves you more than he thought himself capable of loving anyone.
"Will you marry me?"
He held the ring up to you, the gem bright in the afternoon light.
His heart was pounding. His hands were shaking. His eyes were bright with tears he refused to shed.
...
Von Herder
The Realization:
Von Herder had never considered marriage.
His workshop was his love. His inventions were his children. Human relationships were... complicated. Messy. Unpredictable.
But you were different.
The moment he knew came on a night when he was stuck.
A mechanism had failed,some tiny, crucial piece that he could not see, could not feel, could not fix. He had been working for hours. His fingers were bleeding. His patience was gone.
Then you appeared.
You did not offer advice,you knew nothing about engineering. You did not offer pity,Von Herder hated pity. You just... sat down beside him. You picked up the instruction manual and began reading it aloud, slowly, carefully, describing every diagram in precise detail.
He listened to your voice. He followed your words. And suddenly, the mechanism made sense.
He fixed it in ten minutes.
He turned to thank you, and you were smiling,that soft, warm smile that made his chest ache.
"How did you know what to read?" he asked.
"I did not," you said. "I just started at the beginning and hoped for the best."
He had laughed. Actually laughed,a real one, not the polite approximation he usually offered.
And he had thought: I want to hear that voice every day for the rest of my life.
That was when he knew.
The Preparation:
Von Herder prepared with manic energy.
The first thing he did was build the ring.
He did not buy one,that would be cowardly. He built it himself, in his workshop, using materials he had been saving for years.
The band was titanium,lightweight, unbreakable, the same metal he used for his most instruments. The stone was a black opal, flashing with hidden fire, the kind of stone that looked different from every angle.
Just like you, he thought. You are never the same twice. I could study you forever and never understand you completely.
He spent three weeks on the ring. He worked through the night, fueled by coffee and obsession. He rejected six prototypes before he was satisfied.
When it was finally finished, he held it up to the light,not that he could see it, but he could feel it. The weight. The balance. The perfection.
He smiled.
The second thing Von Herder did was choose the location.
His workshop was his sanctuary. It was also a cluttered, dangerous disaster zone. Not exactly romantic.
But he wanted to propose somewhere that mattered. Somewhere that represented him.
He chose the rooftop.
Not the same rooftop as Albert,the manor had many. This one was above his workshop, accessible by a narrow staircase that no one else used. The roof was flat and empty, perfect for stargazing.
Von Herder could not see the stars. But he knew you liked them. He had heard you talk about constellations, about meteor showers, about the vast, beautiful darkness above London's smoky sky.
He would give you the stars.
The third thing Von Herder did was prepare his speech.
He was not a poet. He was an engineer. He thought in schematics, not sonnets.
But he wanted you to understand. He wanted you to know that this,this,was the most important thing he had ever built.
He practiced while he worked, muttering to himself, forgetting and remembering, starting over and over.
In the end, he decided to speak from the heart. Schematics be damned.
The Proposal:
He chose a clear night, when the stars were visible and the air was crisp. He led you up the narrow staircase,"careful," he said, "the third step is loose",and onto the rooftop.
The sky stretched above you, endless and glittering.
"Von," you said, looking around. "What are we doing up here?"
He did not answer immediately. He was nervous,more nervous than he had ever been. His hands, usually so steady, were trembling.
"I cannot see them," he said finally. "The stars. I have not seen them in years. Not since the accident."
You turned to look at him. Your expression was soft, patient.
"But I know they are there," he continued. "I can feel them. The light. The heat. The vast, impossible mathematics of their existence."
He stepped closer to you.
"You are like the stars to me," he said. "I cannot always see you clearly. I cannot always understand you. But I know you are there. I feel you. Every moment. Even when you are not in the room. Especially when you are not in the room."
He reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around the ring.
"I have built many things," he said. "Weapons. Tools. Instruments of death and destruction. I have never built anything for myself. Never built anything simply because it made me happy."
He got down on one knee. The rooftop gravel bit into his knee. He did not care.
"Until now."
He held out the ring. The black opal flashed in the starlight, burning with hidden colors.
"I built this for you. For us. For the future I want to build with you,one gear at a time, one day at a time, one impossible, beautiful moment at a time."
His blind eyes found yours. Somehow. They always did.
"I love you. I loved you when you read instruction manuals to me without being asked. I loved you when you organized my workshop and never moved anything without telling me. I loved you when you touched my face,really touched it, like you were trying to see me,and did not flinch at the scars."
He held the ring up to you, the opal flashing in the starlight.
"I love you. And I want to marry you. I want to wake up next to you and hear your voice first thing in the morning. I want to hold your hand when we are old and grey and ridiculous. I want to spend the rest of my life building things with you,not weapons, not tools, but a life. A home. A future.
"I know I am not easy to love. I know I live in my own world, and I do not always know how to leave it. I know there will be days when I forget to eat, forget to sleep, forget that there is a world outside my workshop. I know I am broken in ways that might never fully heal.
"But I can promise you this: I will never stop building for you. I will never stop creating for you. I will never stop being grateful that you looked at a blind, broken engineer and saw someone worth loving.
"So I am asking you. Not as an inventor. Not as a weaponsmith. Not as any of the other labels people put on me. But as Von herder,the man who loves you more than he thought himself capable of loving anyone.
"Will you marry me?"
He held the ring up to you, the opal bright in the starlight.
His heart was pounding. His hands were shaking. His blind eyes were bright with tears he could not see.
...
Moneypenny
The Realization:
Moneypenny had never expected romance.
She was practical. Efficient. She ran MI6's day-to-day operations, managed budgets, kept secrets, and wrangled a team of chaotic, dangerous men. Romance was for novels. Not for her.
But then you came.
The moment she knew came on a day when everything went wrong.
A mission had failed. Papers were missing. Moran had lost his temper and punched a wall. Albert was in a meeting with the Prime Minister. William was unreachable. Everything was falling apart.
And you simply... took over.
You did not panic. You did not ask questions. You just started doing,filing, organizing, making letters, calming tempers. You handled Moran with gentle firmness, Fred with quiet reassurance, Louis with steady competence.
By the end of the day, everything was fixed.
Moneypenny sat at her desk, exhausted, watching you gather your things to leave.
"Thank you," she said.
You looked up and smiled. "That is what I am here for."
And Moneypenny thought: I want her here forever.
That was when she knew.
The Preparation:
Moneypenny prepared with characteristic precision.
The first thing she did was choose the ring.
She did not want anything flashy. She wanted something understated, practical, beautiful in its simplicity.
She found it in an antique shop near the office,a small diamond set in platinum, clean lines, no embellishments. It looked like something you would wear. It looked like you.
She bought it on her lunch break. She did not tell anyone.
The second thing Moneypenny did was choose the location.
Her life was her office. She spent more time there than anywhere else. It was not romantic,it was full of filing cabinets and requisition forms and the lingering smell of old coffee.
But it was hers.
She would propose in her office. After hours, when everyone else had gone home. Just the two of you, surrounded by the machinery of her life.
Because that was the point, was it not? She was offering you all of it. The boring parts. The stressful parts. The parts that were not pretty or romantic but were real.
The third thing Moneypenny did was prepare her speech.
She was good with words,she had to be, in her line of work. But this was different. This was not a report or a briefing. This was her heart.
She wrote and rewrote her speech. She practiced it in the mirror, in the carriage, in the shower.
She never got it perfect. But she decided that was okay. You would not expect perfect. You never did.
The Proposal:
She chose a Friday evening, when the office was empty and the city was quiet. She asked you to stay late,"I need help with the quarterly reports," she said, which was a lie and you both knew it.
You stayed anyway.
When the last report was filed and the last lamp was lit, Moneypenny stood up from her desk. She walked around to where you sat, pulled out your chair, and got down on one knee.
"No," you said immediately. "Moneypenny, get up. Your knees-"
"Hush," she said. "I am fine."
She took your hands. Her palms were sweaty. Moneypenny was never sweaty.
"I have spent my entire life taking care of other people," she began. "Managing them. Organizing them. Keeping them alive despite their best efforts to die. I am good at it. I do not mind it. It is who I am."
She squeezed your hands.
"But no one has ever taken care of me. Not really. Not until you."
Her voice wavered. She steadied it.
"You see me, Y/N. Not the secretary. Not the iron maiden. Not the woman who keeps this whole circus running. You see me. The tired one. The lonely one. The one who forgets to eat and works too late and falls asleep at her desk more often than she would ever admit."
She reached into her pocket. Her fingers found the ring.
"I love you. I loved you when you took the pen out of my hand and ordered me to take a bath. I loved you when you handled the filing for the 4th District without being asked. I loved you when you sat with me at midnight, drinking cold tea, not saying anything, just being there."
She held out the ring. The small diamond caught the lamplight, glowing softly.
"I love you. And I want to marry you. I want to wake up next to you and argue about whose turn it is to make the coffee. I want to hold your hand when we are old and grey and ridiculous. I want to spend the rest of my life taking care of you the way you have taken care of me.
"I know I am not easy to love. I am rigid. I am controlling. I have a hard time letting go of things that are not my responsibility. I know there will be days when I work too late and forget to come home, days when I am short with you because I am stressed, days when I push you away because I do not know how to let someone in.
"But I can promise you this: I will never stop choosing you. I will never stop being grateful for you. I will never stop being amazed that you looked at a woman like me and saw someone worth staying for.
"So I am asking you. Not as the secretary. Not as MI6's backbone. Not as any of the other titles people give me. But as Moneypenny,the woman who loves you more than she thought herself capable of loving anyone.
"Will you marry me?"
She held the ring up to you, the diamond bright in the lamplight.
Her heart was pounding. Her hands were steady,they were always steady,but her heart was not.
fluff - dad!toji massaging you and baby!gumi’s feet
it starts with your feet in toji’s lap.
the tv’s on low. the couch is warm. you’re curled up sideways with a blanket half-draped over your legs. toji’s sitting back against the cushions, shirtless and relaxed, with one hand lazily kneading into your arch.
you groan softly. “god, that feels amazing.”
“yeah? didn’t think you’d let me touch your feet," he smirks, “you always act like they’re sacred or something.”
“they are,” you mutter. “but i’m tired. i’ve folded like eight thousand loads of laundry. my ankles are going to fall off.”
“awww, poor baby,” he murmurs and presses his thumb in a little deeper.
you sigh, all boneless and happy. your eyes flutter shut. you don’t even hear the little footsteps until-
“dada.”
toji looks over.
megumi is toddling down the hallway in his froggie onesie. his hair all messy from naptime and clutching his froggie stuffie by the arm.
“hey, kiddo,” toji smiles. “you’re still up.”
gumi stops when he sees you both. his eyes narrow while he surveys the scene. you on the couch, snuggled up. toji’s big hands on your feet. the blanket. the soft tv glow.
and then-
he climbs up.
grabs the blanket, wiggles onto the couch beside you and very seriously flops onto his back.
and then proceeds to raises his tiny socked feet in the air.
“me too.”
you choke on a laugh. toji blinks.
megumi wriggles his toes. determined.
“you want a foot rub too, huh?” toji chuckles. “spoiled little punk.”
he reaches over. takes one of the baby feet in his big palm and starts rubbing gently, careful not to press too hard on his soft feet.
fluff - baby!gumi hitting dad!toji because of his loud snoring
it starts with a snort.
then a snore.
then a series of snorts that sound like a pig gargling marbles through a megaphone.
you blink drowsily at the ceiling.
on the other side of the bed, toji is dead asleep. flat on his back. arms splayed like a crimecene victim in criminal minds. mouth wide open. snoring like his soul is trying to escape through his nose.
in between the two of you, your squishy toddler is wide awake.
megumi is sitting up in his frog footie pajamas, blinking solemnly in the dark like a tiny owl. he has been very patient.
until now.
“baby,” you whisper, “it’s okay. daddy’s just sleeping loud.”
megumi looks at you. then back at toji.
another snore rips through the room like a pig rooting around for food.
megumi frowns.and then, with the unflinching judgement of someone who has had enough-
he raises one tiny hand… and slaps toji directly in the face.
SMACK.
you gasp.
toji jerks awake instantly, arms flailing like he’s under attack. “THE FUCK-“
megumi blinks.
toji blinks.
you are about to pass out, trying hard not to laugh.
“he hit me,” toji says blankly, rubbing his cheek. “the gremlin actually hit me.”
“you were snoring too loud,” you whisper, tears forming from suppressed giggles.
megumi just stares at toji. expression deadpan. fists clenched together like he’s about to summon mahoraga. he says absolutely nothing.
toji squints at him. “what’re you, the snore police?”
megumi blinks again.
snorts.
toji throws his head back against the pillow. “fuckin’ hell. my own kid’s got hands.”
“maybe don’t sound like a dying chainsaw, then.”
“i’ve been working all day. i’m exhausted. i have sinus issues. it’s a medical condition.”
“excuses, fushiguro.”
megumi crawls over to your side and curls against your chest like a sleepy burrito with his little thumb in his mouth. his tiny eyebrows furrowed, like he’s judging both of you. (he is).
you kiss megumi’s hair. “go to sleep, baby. we’ll ignore daddy’s noisy nose problems.”
“rude.”
five minutes pass.
toji starts snoring again.
megumi lifts his head.
you grab his tiny hand midair before he smacks toji again.
“no more violence, please.”
megumi grunts.
you swear it sounds like “tsk.”
based on this request
A/N: that video of the baby doing it made me laugh so hard it was hilarious.
Something about Bakugo being nosy just sits so right with me. It’s canon that he’s often listening in on conversations (even if participants of said conversations are unaware of his presence) so I imagine when he likes you he tends to hover around you just a little bit more.
You could be talking to Ashido and Kaminari in the common room and Bakugo will be there. Maybe not necessarily near you, not even looking at you. He’s off on the opposite side of the room, and he’s so uncharacteristically quiet that you could forget he was there in the first place.
You mention offendedly how you miss your favorite drink and snack from that one cafe near the heart of Musutafu, being too busy with your work study to find the time to visit.
A few days later, you hear a knock on your door. You’re met with a plastic bag with the very same food and drink combination you had just told your friends about the other day. Your eyes trail the arm and hand holding it and see Bakugo with a pinched look on his face.
“‘s for you,” he grumbles, head turned to the side as his signature scowl deepens. If you looked any closer, you’d clearly be able to see the blush accentuating his cheeks and ears.
“Thank you, Bakugo,” you take the bag with a smile, and Katsuki has to keep from shuddering when your fingertips accidentally brush his. “Why don’t you come in so we can share?”
Bakugo is nosy, but if it means being able to share stolen moments (and bites of food) with you, then it’s totally worth it.
akotsk x wife reader who acts like Posy Li (Bridgerton) part 2
For those who haven’t seen the show; Posy Li is described as warm, kind-hearted, bubbly, talkative, optimistic emotionally open and affectionate character, she is naïve but sincere 🩵
characters: Aerion, Daeron, Valarr Targaryen ( x Aegon v platonic) and Raymun Fossoway
Part 1 (w/ Duncan the tall, Baelor and Maekar Targaryen, Lyonel Baratheon)
Aerion
The hall is loud with music and courtly laughter, but Aerion hears only one thing…..your voice. He swears to himself it sounds brighter and more bubbly as you converse with some footman as if he were the honored guest of the feast.
From across the room he watches, idly twirling a dagger between his fingers. At first he appears cool, almost detached.
Until you laugh.
Not the awkward one you give when you don’t understand something. Nor the polite one you offer because you hate making people uncomfortable.
The real one.
The one with the snort that makes you bend forward and sends your jewelry jingling.
His grip tightens around the dagger.
Surely nothing that boy has said warrants that precious sound.
When he hears it for a second time, something sharp snaps inside him. The dagger sinks into the wooden table with a dull thud.
He starts to move towards you in long slow, strides. He doesn’t rush, he need to for the predator does not rush to it’s prey. As he stalks towards you,the crowd parts immediately without him having to say a word.
The footman notices him first his smile falters immediately.
You don’t notice at all, still mid-sentence.
“I do think it would be most lovely if each house had a unique flower. I introduced the idea to my father by law he only said ‘interesting,’ but I’m getting through to him.”
You gasp softly when you feel your husband’s chest press against your back, but immediately beam up at him.
“Oh! My love,” you say excitedly. “This is Jason. He’s a footman to Lord Br—”
“Why are you harassing my wife?”
Aerion’s voice cuts cleanly through yours. His tone is accusing, his eyes locked on the footman like a blade poised at a throat.
The poor male’s face goes pale.
“My prince, I mean no disrespect—”
You blissfuly unaware of the tension blurt out,
“Oh! You must see, my love, look at the hilt of his dagger!” you say eagerly. “Instead of a sigil, he placed his late mama’s garnet diadem, isn’t that precious?”
Aerion hums, his gaze never once shifting to where you point.
“I suppose,” he says coolly. “Though I do not think something so precious belongs in the hands of someone so… low.”
His eyes never leave the footman. The silence stretches heavy, suffocating and uncomfortable.
The male swallows understanding what Aerion wants without him having to speak it.
“My prince. My lady. I believe my master will be looking for me soon.”
He bows and quickly flees.
“Aww, well if you must! Bye-bye, Jason!” you call, waving enthusiastically.
Aerion yanks your hand down, pulling you flush against him. His hands grip your hips, the hold not soft enough to be mistaken for tenderness, but not rough enough to be called cruelty.
“What is your obsession with collecting strays, my precious ruby?”
You blink up at him. “Strays?”
“Knights. Stable boys. Maids. Squires. Bakers. The elderly. Actual mongrels.” He scoffs. “You have a remarkable habit of favoring… lesser beings.” His grip tightens slightly at your hip. “You are the wife of a prince, not some tavern girl scattering smiles to every man who looks your way in hopes of earning more copper.”
“Ah, tavern girls are so lovely,” you beam. “It’s impressive how they balance all those drinks. I once tried to—”
“That was not a compliment.”
Your mouth forms a small “o.”
“You waste your compliments,” he murmurs, voice low and edged. His hand comes up to your chin, forcing you to look at him. “It makes me wonder if the ones you give me are even meaningful… if you offer the same warmth to some lowly squire.
You hum thoughtfully, not taking the accusation to heart.
“Well,” you say sweetly, hands resting against his chest, “I like your sword best compared to any other.”
For a moment he stills, his back straightening, chin lifting.
“Mhm, what else.”
It is more command than question but you happily oblige with a grin.
“I think you have the best sword skills in all the Seven Kingdoms and across the Narrow Sea and I think you’re the most beautiful of them all anndddd” you pause for emphasis “I think there’s no dragon temper quite like yours.”
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes sharp, possessive, almost feral.
He pulls you impossibly closer, like a dragon curled tightly around his hoard, daring anyone foolish enough to reach.
“Good,” he murmurs. “See that you remember it.”
Daeron
It was one of those rare moments where Daeron was not drunk.
He was still drinking, of course, but in moderation.
The reason was certainly not that he had a meeting with his father (if anything, that would encourage more wine). Rather it was because he was with you. He did it, not because you scolded him ( you never would) but because he preferred to be clear headed in the moments he spent at your side. Even the foolish ones…..especially the foolish ones. He rather remember the sound of your laughter exactly as it was rather than through the pleasant haze of wine.
He lounges beneath a tree, one knee bent, a wineskin dangling loosely from his fingers as if he hasn’t a care in the world but ever so often gently swatting any bees away that came buzzing too close around you. You on the other hand are attempting to braid a crown of wildflowers.
Keyword attempting, there are far more snapped stems than intact ones scattered in your lap. He found it adorable how anytime one breaks, you gasp softly as if personally offended instead of cursing as most would.
“You know,” Daeron drawls, lazily turning his head toward you, “the flowers were thriving before you declared war on them.”
You gasp. “I did not kill them! They are still alive!”
He hums. “In spirit, perhaps.”
You huff and return to your work, tongue peeking out in concentration as you try again. The wreath collapses immediately, and you toss it onto the growing pile.
Daeron sighs loudly. “This is painful to witness.”
“Then don’t watch!” Your voice cracks slightly.
“I can’t,” he says solemnly. “It’s like watching Aegon attempt swordplay, concerned for everyone involved, but very entertained.”
Despite the insult, you let out a soft laugh.
He finally shifts, setting the wineskin aside and pushing himself upright. “Move over before you render this meadow extinct.”
He kneels closer to you, long fingers brushing yours as he gently takes the flowers from your hands. His touch is warm and soft mayhaps due to the lack of swordplay the young prince so adamantly avoids.
“Like this,” he says, softer now. “Twist the stems together first don’t strangle them.”
Your eyes widen in awe at how quickly and easily he works.
“Wow. You’re amazing!”
He falters, visibly flustered. He is not accustomed to praise, especially not for something so small.
“Well,” he clears his throat lightly, “you’d best inform the maesters at once. Daeron the Fierce Master of Floral Arts.”
You snort, the sound bright in the quiet field, and it pulls a laugh from him as well.
He finishes the wreath with easy grace and lifts it slightly, examining it with exaggerated scrutiny. “Passable,” he decides. “For something created under my supervision.”
He places the wreath in your lap.
“See? They respond better to patience and gentleness. Much like princes,” he quips.
Carefully you lift the crown and place it upon his head as if he were Aegon the Conqueror himself.
“There,” you say softly, eyes gleaming. “Much better.”
“Because of the flowers?” he asks, breath catching with a quiet laugh.
“Because of the prince wearing them,” you correct.
He blinks at you, momentarily stunned, his usual snarky remark dying on his tongue.
He stands quickly, hoping you don’t notice the faint pink tint rising to his cheeks.
“They’re my squire, I’ve taught you all that I know. Do try not to massacre any more flowers, or the Reach may take offense,” he says, brushing himself off to return to his shaded spot for a nap.
You laugh again and shove him back down.
Daeron lets himself fall dramatically into the grass, one arm thrown over his eyes. “Abused,” he declares. “After all I’ve done.”
But he’s smiling.
And when you settle beside him, still giggling, he tilts his head just enough so he can hear it better.
Raymun
Raymun had imagined meeting you at least a hundred times.
In most of those imaginings, he was taller, broader, silver-tongued and effortlessly charming. In some versions, Steffon had been shipped off to Essos on urgent business and never mentioned again.
In reality, Raymun nearly knocked his forehead against yours when he bowed, tripped over his own boot and stammered through every word as if he had only just learned the Common Tongue.
You had smiled at him anyway.
Which, frankly, was worse.
Because no one that warm and bright could possibly be meant for him.
So when he sees you again days later in the orchard, skirts gathered in your hands as you hurry toward him, pink and blue silk fluttering stark against the browns and greens of the trees he almost looks over his shoulder to check if you are running toward someone else.
“Good morrow, my lord!” you call breathlessly. “I was told you prefer the orchard to the training yard, which I think is rather wise, because apples smell far better than sweat.”
Raymun blinks.
He opens his mouth.
Nothing.
He had rehearsed clever greetings for the next time he saw you, but suddenly they vanish. All he manages, in a low, cracking voice, is:
“Yes.”
You beam at him anyway.
You clasp your hands behind your back and rock gently on your heels. “I’ve been wondering,” you begin earnestly, “do you think apple trees grow better if you speak kindly to them? I told that one over there that its branches are very elegant just in case it needed encouragement. I also informed another that its apples were the reddest in the orchard I thought mayhaps it might be proud and next season producers even more ones like it-“
You pause, glancing at him.
Raymun only stares and you mistake it for discomfort, in reality he’d been awestruck.
“Oh my,” you say quickly, smile faltering. “Am I speaking nonsense? My septa used to slap my wrist with her stick and tell me I needed to ‘get back on the ground with the others.’”
“N-no,” he says at once. “I think it’s great… you should continue encouraging the trees.”
Your smile returns instantly. “Good good- I should hate for them to feel discouraged.”
You wander farther into the orchard and stop before a tree whose basket at its base sits completely empty, while the others are nearly full.
“I think this one is shy,” you declare. “It hasn’t dropped a single apple yet, perhaps it requires praise from someone… familiar?” Your eyes lift to his hopeful and Inviting.
Raymun’s mouth falls open. He points at himself as if you’ve just requested he recite a poem in High Valyrian.
You nod eagerly.
Not wanting to disappoint you, he obeys.
Raymun, who has faced men twice his size in the training yard without flinching, who has taken a sound beating from his cousin and remained standing approaches the tree as though it might strike him down.
He clears his throat.
“Umm… hello tree ,” he says stiffly to the branches above, he opens his mouth then closes it again nothing comes to mind. “I am sorry my lady but I am not very good with words.”
“It is easy,” you insist, eyes shining. “Simply tell the truth as it is, and it will come out naturally.”
He looks at you for a heartbeat longer than necessary before turning back to the tree.
“Well umn the other trees have firm branches,” he begins slowly. “All the same shape, all dropping at the same time, all predictable….. then there’s you” he chuckles lightly “your branches bend in every direction, reaching wherever they please, dropping apples at random moments. Some might think that strange… but I think it means you are unique. You may not seem like the other pe— trees , but I think you are… better for it….perfect even.”
His voice softens near the end.
As if summoned by his confession, an apple loosens from a higher branch and drops thudding into the grass near his boot.
You laugh clapping delighted. “You see? It responds to you!”
He bends to retrieve it, brushing the grass from its skin hands it to you. Your fingers brush his as you accept it.
“I think it ought not be pressed,” he says quietly, cheeks slightly pink, eyes steady and certain. “Some things are better kept whole.” This time he does not hesitate nor stutter.
You cradle the apple to your chest as though he has handed you something far more precious.
“I shall treasure it,” you promise solemnly.
Valarr
The first alarm bell in his head rings when your maidservant informs him you are in the library after he inquired where you had disappeared to all the morrow.
You did not read, not often or for long periods of time.
He did not mean it as an insult, you enjoyed literature well enough, but you preferred stories spoken, acted, performed… or read aloud by him. That was his favorite, you sprawled across his lap while he read, your fingers tracing the embroidery of his doublet as his voice soft voice reads through the passage.
The second alarm is before he steps into the library through the large oak doors he hears whispering and shuffling and giggles where there should be silence. Once he enters the tips of his ears turn red when he finds you half beneath the great wooden table that is covered by blankets and tapestries, your skirts hiked up, ares high in the air.
Despite having had you in far more intimate positions, he still turns his head sharply aside, clearing his throat to get your attention.
“Valarr!” you say excitedly and move far too quickly.
Thunk
Your head collides with the underside of the table.
He is at your side in an instant
“Gods—” His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing your temples as he inspects you with frantic concentration. “Are you hurt?”
“I am fine,” you assure him sheepishly.
Only then does he properly take in the room.
The great table has been dragged from its place and is smothered in blankets and pillows. Chairs are draped in heavy cloth to widen the structure. Honorable books shipped from across Westeros and the Free Cities are now stacked as makeshift castle walls.
He exhales slowly through his nose.
“You will make my father scold you again.”
And by ‘scold’ he means Baelor will give you the gentlest tap upon the wrist. The heir adores you even though it has only been one moon since your marriage to his son, he treats you like the daughter he always wished for.
“Little egg was sad he could not go riding because of the rain,” you explain softly. “I thought this would make him feel better.”
As if summoned by name, a small head pops out from the opposite side of the blanket wall.
“I am her sworn knight!” declares Aegon brandishing a wooden sword. “You may not enter the queen’s fortress without the proper password! Hiyah!”
He smacks Valaar squarely on the thigh.
Valaar blinks down at him.
“Aegon,” he says carefully, “should you not be using this time for more scholarly pursuits? If I am not mistaken, you have yet to translate an entire passage in High Valyrian—“
Something catches his eye above.
A page ripped from one of the books, bearing a drawing of a bunny sleeping peacefully in a bright, colorful meadow has been pinned to the top of the fortress like a banner.
He knows exactly which book it came from.
He had read it to you only last night. He remembers the way you had risen onto your knees, pointing excitedly at the illustration and declaring that if you ever had your own house, your sigil would be a very cute animal.
He stares at it.
“My love…. You did not mutilate a perfectly good manuscript for this—”
Aegon frowns.
So do you.
And suddenly Valaar feels very much like the villain in this tale.
His shoulders soften immediately.
“But,” he amends gently, “I suppose it is not a crime for a prince and lady to have one day of rest….please ensure you place everything where you found it.
He turns to leave you two to your game, but you tug at his sleeve.
“We are missing a monster,” you say brightly. “Every brave knight needs one to save the fair maiden.”
His brows crease immediately knowing where this was going. “I am not playing a monster.”
“Pleaseeeee.”
“My sweet—”
“Please please pleaseeee” you beg as you shake him.
He should refuse.
He must refuse.
There are letters awaiting him before supper, matters of coin and other duties befitting an heir, none of which involve crawling beneath tables in a blanket fortress.
But you are looking at him like that.
The look you give when you want him to stay a little longer in bed , the look you give when you ask him to sneak you more biscuits because your mama forbid you from having more and that look always breaks him.
He sighs softly.
“Very well,” he relents. “But only if the queen grants the beast a true love’s kiss to turn him back human.”
“That is not how monsters work—” Aegon protests, only to be gently shoved aside by his eldest cousin, landing safely among the cushions.
“It is now,” he declare.
He reaches out brushing his thumb tenderly across your cheek before pressing a soft kiss.
For a man who faces the Small Council and tourneys with ferocity and stubborn resolve the same can not be said when it came to you.
Tag list: @dailythotdotcom @baddiesgetsaddies97 @foggyturtleknightangel (thank you guys for the request had sm fun making these!)
'CAUSE YOU CAN BE THE BEAUTY & I COULD BE THE MONSTER ˎˊ˗
synopsis. aerion targaryen — a possible heir to the throne, the son of the crown prince and grandson of the king — had fallen ill with an unknown fever. maesters who had served for years could not handle it, none of them found a cure, and his uncle decided to turn to you, a young healer from distant lands. pt 2.
pairing. aerion x healer! reader
.✦ contains. kinda enemies to lovers but not really, misogyny, slight jealousy, reader is from the house mullendore.
a/n. pics are for the aesthetic purposes only - there is no physical description of reader. yay
day 1. 208 AC.
you stood in the middle of the chambers given to you — spacious, yet still unfamiliar — and slowly laid out everything you brought with you.
the work table by the window was already taken. the light fell evenly, soft, just how you liked it — enough to see the shades of leaves, the veins, the thickness of oils.
you started with the herbs.
a bundle of sage went to the top shelf — farther from extra moisture and foreign hands.
next to it — neatly tied stems of mint, a little lower, so it was easier to take in a hurry.
you placed the chamomile into a small clay jar, sorting the flowers with your fingers — by habit, almost not looking.
the smells slowly filled the room: warm, bitter, fresh.
at the edge of the table — clean, folded white cloths. you ran your hand over them, checking the softness, and set a few aside — for the first examination.
taking out your travel bag made of soft worn leather, which was your kit, you started to gather a set for the first visit to the prince.
in your memory came up the voice of your mentor, an old apothecary — the man who taught you to change a compress before speaking.
he said that in the capital one of the crown princes was sick.
“the order came from prince baelor himself.”
you heard from men nearby that prince baelor was in your lands a few weeks earlier — something about dealings with lands.
it must have been then that he heard about you.
you were not a big fan of the praise your small people spoke about you — words that no one left your hands untreated, that your methods were different from traditional ones and because of that your hands were covered in gold.
usually they said this to criticize the system of the citadel, which trained maesters so they would serve royal families, ignoring ordinary people who needed help more because of hard labor.
but you did not complain. your main goal was to heal people, to breathe life into them and you managed it.
then it felt like an honor, but when the castle met you here with silence and a maekar full of despair, who said that the maesters were powerless, and one of them died after catching this fever — you understood that it was more serious than you thought.
“my son… is specific. the illness made his temper even more… unpredictable,” he said, pressing his lips, and there were already notes of no hope in his voice.
“my prince, i will do everything in my power. but if the great minds of the citadel stepped back before this sickness, i cannot give empty promises. the rest will stay with the seven.”
day 3. 208 AC.
the morning started with a sharp knock on the door. a young servant, out of breath, said that the prince had woken up.
you headed toward the unfamiliar chambers, your healer’s kit thrown over your shoulder, and the soft lilac hem of your dress gently rustling with every step.
usually you braided your hair so it would not get in the way or fall into the herbs, but now you only quickly gathered it into a bun with a bone pin, feeling how a few stubborn strands were already slipping free from the weak hold.
when you reached the heavy doors of the royal chambers, the knights immediately stepped aside, making you softly smile back at them.
when the doors opened, they revealed a stifling room and prince baelor standing by the bed.
“my lord.” you lowered your head in a light bow.
“lady mullendore,” baelor said quietly, giving a small nod.
but before you could straighten, the silence was cut by a mocking, contemptuous laugh that made you turn your head and meet the direct gaze of aerion targaryen.
he looked exhausted, but even illness had not broken his arrogance.
his broad chest was bare and shining with fever sweat, the blanket had slipped down to his hips, and his skin was so pale it looked almost transparent.
he stared at you through heavy half-lowered eyelids, his eyes red, showing his condition.
you noticed the scars on his face that had not fully healed after — as you assumed — another showy tournament.
“my prince.”
“you think…” he started, but broke off, coughing, then continued in a rough voice. “you think that if men who spent years studying in the citadel under strict supervision and have half a lifetime of experience could not cure me… then some common girl can?”
he turned his gaze to the man beside him, and a weak, poisonous smile played on his lips. “i did not think you and father were this desperate, uncle.”
prince baelor only pressed his lips tighter. “behave properly, kid,” he said shortly, and then, throwing you an apologetic look, nodded and left.
you slowly walked to the table by the window where the light fell on your tools and began to carefully lay out the vials.
“admit it.” a mocking voice came from behind. “they sent you here so my cock would not rot off?”
then he pushed himself up and sat, leaning against the headboard. “if that is the case, we are starting this rather wrong.”
you did not answer, flipping through the pages of your personal journal where symptoms and recipes of rare ointments were written in small handwriting.
“i am here to rid you of this terrible fever, my prince,” you said softly.
aerion let out a quiet laugh and slowly ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it off his forehead. his gaze grew heavier.
“the last man who came here with the same goal is now six feet under in the sept of summerhall.”
you did not answer him.
instead, you took a small bowl of cool water and walked to his bed. your steps were almost silent. when you reached out to touch his forehead, aerion jerked back as if you were about to strike him with a dagger.
“you think you have the right to touch a dragon?” he said, frowning. his skin was so hot you could feel it even without touching him.
“i must examine you, my prince,” you replied calmly, not looking away.
“leave.”
you raised your eyes, watching his tense face. he was exhausted, his hair stuck to his temples, and his breathing was uneven and heavy.
he looked like death could come for him any moment.
“are you going to disobey a prince?”
you hesitated for a second, carefully studying his condition — the trembling in his hands, the unnatural flush on his cheeks. fighting him now, while he was at his peak of irritation, was pointless.
so you quietly nodded and headed for the door.
however, you did not pack your things. your satchel stayed open on the table by the window, leaving vials and notes visible.
the last thing you felt was his piercing gaze following you all the way to the doors.
day 4. 208 AC.
you did not have to part from him for long, because the very next night you were in his chambers again, the chamomile oil in your hands turning warm as you mixed it with nut oil.
aerion’s condition had worsened quickly and under the watchful, heavy gaze of maekar and his barely audible breaths, aerion had to give in.
but even now, when the illness drained the strength out of him, he did not miss a chance to make a poisonous comment about every one of your movements.
you remembered how the very first time your fingers finally touched his forehead, his body had tensed and his eyes had shut tight.
he did not look like someone who was often touched.
now he sat, helplessly leaned back against the tall headboard, his eyes constantly following you.
maybe the awareness of possible death had made him accept everything and fall silent. or almost silent.
you walked up to him, carrying the tray, and set it down on the bedside table. a thick, calming smell spread through the air.
pouring the chamomile and nut oil mixture into your palms, you slowly rubbed them together, warming them with your skin.
aerion raised an eyebrow, and on his pale face a familiar smirk appeared. “if you want to touch my cock that badly, you only had to ask.”
that made you softly smile, but you did not answer. instead you came closer and sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight, and for a moment the distance between you shrank to a few inches.
you raised your hand over his skin but froze halfway, lifting your gaze to him.
a silent question.
aerion looked into your eyes for a long moment, then slightly tilted his head.
you lowered your gaze and gently touched his neck, and in the same second you heard his sharp, broken inhale.
his body tensed and his jaw clenched hard. the skin was horribly hot, almost burning.
aerion’s eyes slowly closed. you could feel under your palms how his frantic pulse slowly began to calm down.
your hands moved down to his shoulders, gently massaging them, then went lower to his chest, carefully avoiding the area of his heart.
you clearly remembered your teacher’s instructions: only pure chamomile could be applied to the heart area, and nut oil in a mixture could cause unnecessary irritation.
aerion stayed silent, but his head tilted back slightly and his eyes stayed closed.
after you made sure he had relaxed, and his skin had cooled enough not to disturb his sleep, you stood up to lightly run oil over his forehead.
when you combed his damp hair back to clear his forehead, his eyes slowly opened and locked onto your face, first following your strands that had already fallen out of a hastily made braid in the middle of the night, lingering longer than they should on your lips, then moving up to your eyes.
that night, aerion targaryen did not have nightmares for the first time since the illness began.
day 9. 208 AC.
“i will have you beheaded if you try to poison me.”
aerion lay on his side, still weak, but his skin no longer felt like a burning furnace, and he had gained enough strength at least to lazily prop his head up on his hand and watch you.
you smiled lightly without even turning to him. “you repeat that every morning, my prince.”
your hands were familiar and steady as they mixed a brew of sage and yarrow, carefully measuring every drop of the solution. “if i truly wished you dead, i would have been sensible enough not to choose such an obvious and foolish way.”
aerion raised an eyebrow, and in his eyes, still hazy from fever, a playful smirk flickered.
“so you admit you had thought of killing me?”
you only shook your head slightly, reaching for the honey pot on the upper shelf, making your dress softly rustle as you stretched up for it.
“i am afraid that is not quite what i said, my prince,” you said and turned to him. “but if you are so insistently seeking an encounter with death, then who am i to oppose your will?”
he did not laugh, but you saw the corner of his mouth lift. in his gaze, heavy and drowsy, real amusement suddenly surfaced.
you walked toward him, scooping a little of the brew with a wooden spoon as you went, to check the temperature and ensure the right bitterness.
you gave a short nod to yourself, then handed the bowl to the prince and immediately returned to the table.
aerion predictably grimaced — few people drank such herbs with pleasure. he drained the cup in a couple of gulps and coughed loudly, trying to get rid of the aftertaste.
“disgusting,” he exhaled, frowning. “i would rather die sooner if this is the only way to stop drinking this shit.”
he was about to hand the empty cup back to you, but you returned just in time. with one hand you took the cup, and with the other you offered him a spoon, making him frown.
“what is this?”
“it will take away the bitterness, my prince.”
he looked at you and gave a short laugh. “do you think i am a child?”
“not only children sometimes want something sweet,” you replied, not looking away.
aerion snatched the spoon from your hand. he paused, studying the amber honey, in the very center of which a ripe blackberry sat like a small ornament.
“dragons do not need to be bribed with berries,” he muttered, still trying to sound displeased.
you only shrugged and went back to your shelves.
however, when you glanced back at the bed a minute later, the spoon was already empty.
day 21. 208 AC.
the night knock on the door was so sharp that you jolted up in bed, barely understanding what was happening.
when a breathless knight at the door said that the prince was urgently calling for you, you did not even have time to get ready.
you were only in a nightgown — made of soft fabric, reaching your ankles, with simple sleeves. your hair, which you had not managed to tie up as usual, fell loose over your shoulders.
you quickly threw a thick outer dress-cloak over it and went out.
when you entered aerion’s chambers, you froze at the threshold. he was not lying in bed or half-sitting against the headboard as usual. he was standing.
the prince stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard and fast. his bare chest shone with sweat, and wet strands of hair stuck to his face.
aerion’s eyes found you immediately — he held your gaze for a second, then sharply shifted to the knight standing behind you.
“out."
the knight did not argue: he gave a short nod and quickly left, leaving you alone in the room.
you rubbed your eyes sleepily and slowly walked toward him. “is something troubling you, my prince?” you asked softly.
aerion stayed silent at first, looking at you, his jaw tightly clenched and his shoulders tense. “i saw a nightmare.”
you approached him carefully, like a wounded animal, not making any sudden movements.
"good,” you said gently once you were very close. “but you should not be getting out of bed in this condition.”
he gave a short laugh, but there was no trace of his usual amusement in it. “i did not call you here to repeat obvious things,” he said, but he did not move even as you stopped right in front of him.
you reached out and touched his forehead, making him close his eyes and exhale heavily, leaning into your touch.
you moved your hand lower and touched his neck with the back of your fingers. “temperature is normal, these must be transitional symptoms. the illness is leaving, the body is just still resisting.”
“i have not had nightmares since the day you came here,” he said, opening his eyes slightly. “since you started rubbing your overly sweet oils into me and forcing me to drink solutions that taste like horse shit.”
you stood so close that you could feel the heat coming off his skin. a thick, heavy smell hit you — the air of a suffocating room, bitter herbs, his sweat, his scent.
“i can cal—” you started, but he sharply shook his head, cutting you off mid-sentence.
“just...” aerion stopped, then nodded toward his bed. “sit there. in case… i get worse.”
you understood that refusing a prince was impossible, and there was more of a hidden request than an order in his voice now, so you quietly nodded and sat on the very edge of the bed, choosing the side opposite him.
but you did not expect what happened next. aerion slowly walked to the bed, and instead of just lying down beside you, he lowered himself onto the blankets and carefully placed his head directly on your lap.
“my prince…”
“just stay like that,” he cut you off without opening his eyes.
several minutes passed in complete silence. gradually you began to relax, feeling the weight of his head and the way his tension slowly faded.
at first hesitantly, barely touching, you ran your hand through his long silver hair, hearing a quiet, almost pleased exhale in return.
once you were sure he was relaxing, you slowly combed through the cool strands, letting them slip between your fingers.
he was already on the edge of sleep when you heard his barely audible whisper.
“when we are alone, you can call me aerion.”
day 37. 208 AC.
“thank you very much, ser. i would not have managed without your help,” you said softly.
you lingered by the doors, speaking with ser garret. the young knight had offered to help you carry the heavy buckets of water, and you were grateful to him.
the man opposite you broke into a wide smile, clearly pleased with the attention. “oh, think nothing of it! come to me anytime. it would be a sin not to help such a beautiful lady as you.”
when you finally entered the chambers, aerion was already sitting, leaned back against the headboard. his jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles in his cheeks kept shifting.
“you were long.”
you, not suspecting anything, calmly went to your table, checking the shelves with tinctures. “i was speaking with ser garret,” you answered, moving as usual to check his body temperature. this had already become routine for you.
the white-haired man gave a short, sharp laugh. “i see.”
when you came closer, he suddenly called the name of the recent knight, his voice sounding so steady and commanding that no one would guess this was the same man who had recently been unable to open his eyes.
you frowned, not understanding why he needed the guard, but the door already swung open and the knight froze at the threshold.
aerion did not even look at garret. “how lucky we are today,” he drawled, and before you could react, he sharply pulled your arm.
you gasped in surprise, losing your balance, and in the next second you were sitting on his lap, sideways against his chest.
“it seems today is exactly the day you should carefully rub my body with oils,” his voice was low and slow.
“my prince, there is no need for that anymore, your body is already…” you started, trying to pull away.
“i think i know better what my body needs.”
his face was so close to yours that you could feel his hot breath on your skin.
then he took your hands and deliberately, slowly placed them on his neck — where you always started the massage.
“my prince…”
“aerion,” he corrected without looking away from you.
you awkwardly turned your head and saw ser garret. the poor man stood there, not knowing where to look, looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. you looked back at the prince.
“aerion,” you repeated quietly and uncertainly.
he lifted his brow in victory, and playful, sharp sparks danced in his eyes.
“you may leave, ser garret. we have… much to do,” he said, never breaking eye contact with you.
gods, it sounded so wrong.
but the moment you tried to stand, aerion’s hands closed around your waist, pulling you even closer.
“he will tell the whole castle about this,” you said, pressing your hands against his shoulders. “they will get a completely wrong idea of what is happening here.”
aerion only gave a lazy smirk. “what a pity.”
since that day, neither ser garret nor any other knight in the castle dared even speak to you again.
day 53. 208 AC.
this was the hardest moment — the final wave of fever.
you knew it was a sign that the illness was leaving, burning out the last traces of sickness from his body. that was why you did not leave his side for even a moment, practically living in his chambers.
all day and through the endless night you stayed beside him. you gave him brews, changed compresses every two hours, and barely closed your eyes. aerion would either sink into unconsciousness or briefly come back to himself, and every time his gaze would land on you.
near dawn, when you moved to the table again to change the water once more, you heard a strange sound.
turning around, you saw him thrashing in the bed. his hand was desperately searching over the sheets, as if looking for your hand. his eyes were half open, and his lips were moving in a whisper, almost like a prayer, shaped as your name.
you quickly went to him, removed the hot cloth from his forehead, and placed a new, cool compress. the moment your fingers touched his skin, his hand immediately caught yours.
he tightly squeezed your hand, pressed his cheek against it, and went still at once, falling back asleep — this time calm and deep.
day 77. 208 AC.
aerion had recovered enough to already be describing in full detail how exactly he would humiliate the next knight at a tournament. you only smiled softly and reminded him that it was still too early for him to ride a horse.
“first of all, i am on my feet thanks to the valyrian gods,” he declared, and then, after a slight pause, added. “well… maybe your methods sped things up a little.”
you laughed lightly, but aerion suddenly went quiet. he saw you slowly and carefully packing your things from the shelves, placing vials into your travel bag, and he frowned, asking if you were going to replace the medicines.
you looked at him with a soft smile.
“tomorrow another healer will come. she will watch over your recov— ”
“what?”
“i am leaving, my prince. my work is done.”
he stared at you as if you had said he did not have valyrian blood. it seemed he had not even considered that you could leave.
“i could fall ill at any moment. the sickness could return. i am not even fully healed yet.”
“you were just boasting about riding in a tournament,” you reminded him.
“i lied. i am not taking part in any tournament.”
“aerion, i did what i was brought here to do. now a royal healer will take care of you,” you said quietly, exhaling.
“i do not need a royal healer,” he snapped, his voice firm. “you are doing fine. stay here, i will make you the head of them.”
but you shook your head, continuing to pack your things.
“my people are waiting for me on my land. i will always serve the smallfolk first. that is what makes me different from the maesters of the citadel.”
“you did not cure me completely. i need time. and that woman… i will send her to your lands instead of you,” he said, swallowing hard.
then he stepped closer, taking hold of your hand. “those who need treatment will come here. any member of my family could catch this sickness, and only your herbs work on it. you cannot leave.”
he stood so close that his breath burned your skin, and his eyes did not leave yours.
“you will not leave,” he whispered, almost ordering.
you looked at him, studying the face that had become too familiar to you over these days. you had just opened your mouth to argue when he suddenly pulled you toward him and his lips crashed into yours.
you gasped in surprise, but the sound was swallowed by his mouth.
it was not a gentle kiss. it was a hungry, desperate surge — as if he had been holding himself back for weeks and finally snapped. aerion let out a low groan right into your lips, turning his head to deepen the kiss, demanding a response. and you responded, pressing your palms against his hot chest, feeling his tongue insistently explore your mouth.
that night he did not let you go, which was so surprising, because he had never openly shown you his weaknesses. when you lay in the dim light of his huge bed, he held you close.
“say you will not leave,” he quietly demanded.
you stayed silent for a long moment, listening to the beat of his heart under your ear.
“i will not leave,” you finally whispered.
aerion exhaled heavily, his body noticeably relaxing. he buried his chin in your hair, pulling you even closer.
day 78. 208 AC.
and just like that, you were gone before the first dawn.
warnings. dark themes, arranged marriage, fluff, aerion is a warning himself, gentle!reader, aerion's only soft with her, obsessive behaviour, ooc aerion.
gifs cr : @ lady-arryn; @ s_attayee
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he never leaves your side at the wedding.
You still remember your mother’s one wish before the mysterious fever had claimed her life – the same words she had been telling you since you were a child.
"Let love always be your choice, darling. Do not repeat my fate."
She never spoke in long speeches, yet you knew. Your mother was too wise a woman – she never put things plainly. There was no need for it; you've always been a clever girl.
Never marry a lord out of duty. It will eat you alive, until nothing of you remains.
And here you were, from head to toe in your wedding attire, dressed entirely in red – the colour of his house.
At least you didn't break the promise you had given to your mother, did you? He is everything but a lord.
Your husband. The one you were meant for.
A cruel prince who has gone mad – that's what people say about him. A monster who takes pleasure in hurting others.
Aerion Targaryen.
A dragon in human form – his heart is too cold to be tamed, too hot to be approached.
Yet your father didn't care enough to do something about it.
After all, you were truly your mother's daughter.
Turning your head slightly, you studied his profile: pale silver hair that he had run his fingers through countless times, a tense jawline and eyes filled with nothing but irritation.
You couldn't blame him, honestly. The air was thick with the smell of wine, meat, and sweat. Men, treating your wedding feast as just another excuse to get drunk, glance at you with an interest that bordered on the obscene.
"Dragons don't need love," he had said when you first came here. "Don't bother trying. It will make you look pathetic."
But he was there, sitting beside you, even though most of the wedding has already passed, leaving only the drunkards behind. You had expected him to leave as soon as his father had returned to his chambers, but he hadn't.
Instead, Aerion's eyes stayed fixed on someone else.
"I'm going to rip that scum's eyes out right here."
Frowning at his sudden threat, you followed his gaze and noticed an older man with a shaggy beard staring at your cleavage.
Oh.
You let out a soft laugh. "He's not the first."
"He will be the last."
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he was mindful of your pleasure on your wedding night.
Aerion's footsteps were loud in your quiet chambers as he slowly entered, still wearing his finery. It seemed you were the only one who needed such preparation.
The wedding night. To consummate the marriage, to fulfill the very reason you had been sent here: into the dragon’s grasp.
You recalled all your aunt’s stories about such nights of pain and impassive husbands. Your heart skipped a beat at the realization that your fate was no different from your mother's – perhaps even worse.
Your father was an honest man. He never loved your mother, nor did he seek to pretend – not for you, and certainly not for his wife.
He wasn't cruel. He never laid a hand on you, never spoke harshly, never punished you for the kind of whims children are prone to. Not once did he force your mother to bear one child after another to secure an heir.
And maybe that was the problem: he felt nothing at all.
Aerion noticed your mood shift – of course he did. He notices everything, you thought. He had taken you to the garden when you could no longer endure your family’s expectations, and after a silent walk, you parted ways to prepare for what was to come that night.
The longer the servants prepared you, the more you felt their sticky, pity-laden gazes. Words never left their lips, but there was no need: you knew exactly what they meant.
“A cruel fate for one so young.”
“You’ve done nothing to deserve this, my princess.”
"May the Gods have mercy upon you."
You smiled softly in response. There were fates far worse than yours.
Lost in thought, you didn't even notice when Aerion came close enough for you to feel his presence. He ran his hand through your hair, slowly combing it with his fingers.
Gently, almost tenderly.
"They're softer than I imagined," he murmured, as if mesmerised.
You froze, his touch somehow soothing you, then slightly leaned towards him, unsure of what to expect.
You slowly turned around to look at him and felt your breath hitch in your throat. His gaze was already roaming over your face, as if he wanted to remember every detail.
He wrapped his hands around your waist, pulling you closer until you shared one breath. "You are the dragon's wife now," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. "And I'm not interested in hurting what's mine."
Then his lips crashed onto yours with such force you’d have fallen if he weren’t holding you so tightly.
There was nothing gentle about it, nothing subtle. He made no attempt to play the part of a good husband. Aerion kissed you like a man certain of what was his. Hungrily, he pulled you in, while you responded at your own pace. You kissed him slowly, as though you had all the time in the world.
He broke the kiss and let his lips wander along the line of your jaw to your neck, lightly grazing your skin with his teeth.
"Aerion," you whispered his name, and he let out a sound that was almost a growl. His teeth sank above your collarbone, his tongue leaving a mark that would remain as proof of your night.
A part of you wondered if he’d allow you to do the same.
You kept your thoughts to yourself. One day, maybe.
A little moan slipped from your lips, making him lift you so effortlessly – as if you had always belonged in his arms – as he guided you towards the bed. You gasped, wrapping your legs around him as he claimed your mouth once more.
"Perhaps this time," you thought, "your aunt was wrong."
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he won't let you sleep apart from him.
"Egg isn't feeling well, and I need to be there for him." You were supposed to return to Aegon’s chambers to read him a bedtime story about knights. Yet here you were – Gods knew for how long – in your chambers, arguing with your husband about... about what, actually?
"If he is not feeling well, he can call a fucking maid who'll read him those stupid stories. And you certainly don't need to waste your night on him."
"I can’t bear the thought of him waking up in the middle of the night, Aerion," you stepped closer to him. "Terrified that no one is there."
You stopped in front of him and tried to meet his eyes, but he stared somewhere far off, his jaw tight. You did what you’d learned over the last month, what you knew would soothe him. You leaned against him, laying your head on his chest; his heartbeat is quick under your ear. His hands almost automatically – instinctively – wrapped around your waist and squeezed you lightly.
"He's our brother, our little treasure," your voice is soft – as always – you never raised your voice.
That made him snort. "And I'm your husband."
You blinked.
Then pulled back enough to face him and finally understood what the problem was.
How could you have missed that?
Since that night of the wedding, you’d always slept together. He never let you go to your own chambers.
Your hips burn with a sweet pain; you feel every mark he left on your body, every grip that will surely turn into bruises. You are exhausted; your husband is lying on top of you, his nose tracing your neck. The skin-to-skin contact feels so intimate, it’s almost laughable considering what just happened.
You know, however, that comfort like this is only temporary and you can’t let yourself get used to it. You try to get up, the pain in your hips makes it impossible to think clearly, but that’s a worry for another day.
"Where are you going?" his voice is hoarse, heavy with pleasure and something else you can’t quite recognize yet.
You tilt your head slightly. "To my own bed."
He fixes you with a look that leaves no room for argument. The decision has already been made, and all you can do is accept it.
“You will sleep here.” He pulls you back against him, his arm wrapping around your waist in a possessive hold, your back resting against his chest.
You can't help but smile. He wants you to sleep beside him. Together.
He buries his nose in your hair, deeply breathing in the scent of lavender – the soap used by the servants to wash the princess's hair. His hand rests on your stomach in possessive grip, as if protecting what has yet to exist.
"I thought dragons knew nothing of love," you lean towards him, speaking tenderly, causing him to murmur something under his breath. A sense of calm and something you can't name yet blooms in your chest.
"They don't." His voice is rough, but his grip hasn’t loosened at all. "You are my wife, it’s my duty to sleep with you. Do not be fooled."
But when you wake up, sunlight pours over the bed, and he is still holding you as if you could vanish at any moment – you knew better.
And now, waking beside him – even though you clearly remembered falling asleep by Egg’s bedside – you saw that he was not the monster everyone else believed him to be.
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he spoils you.
Taking off another bracelet engraved with his initials, you found your gaze was drawn to the jewelry box, filled with pieces he has given you - dragon pendants, countless bracelets in black and scarlet. Your eyes then move to the armoire, filled with dresses of the purest silk, tailored just for you by the best.
The books you've only ever mentioned once in your morning talks rested on the shelves, which seemed to appear by some unseen hand whenever you spoke of a new one.
"It is likely the servants," he said, avoiding your gaze. "Or one of my stupid brothers who wants to impress you."
A gentle laugh escaped you as you move towards him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands clung to you immediately, almost without him realizing.
You swayed lightly. "Maybe."
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he comes to you when things get difficult.
It was late at night when you had decided to walk through the garden, enjoying the quiet and breathtaking view that had become so familiar.
You had spent the day guiding Aegon through the history of his ancestors – he couldn’t care less, he only wanted to outdo Aerion – before finally deciding to rest because you had started feeling dizzy.
There had been no time to see your husband; you had simply assumed he was busy with his training.
How wrong you were.
When you entered the chambers, he was already there, standing with his back to you, staring off into the distance.
He didn't acknowledge you when you entered, yet you noticed the signs of recognition. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, as though he was finally letting himself be at ease beside you.
"Husband."
He kept silent.
Instead, he turned and walked toward you slowly. There was none of that teasing sparkle or even a hint of mockery in his eyes—only fatigue and acceptance, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Then, to your surprise, he leaned in and buried his nose in your neck, inhaling the scent that reminded him of home.
"My mother would've loved you," he whispered, a quiet, wry smile in his tone.
No pretense, no show. Sincere.
It was only then that you realized: Egg's sudden urge to learn something new, why it had been so quiet – no servants bustling about, no Daeron pestering you with his philosophical debates.
Their mother. They all needed something to distract them.
You lifted your hands to the back of his head, caressing his hair gently, making him pull you closer. A quiet hum escaped him, followed by a small kiss on your neck. It felt as if you’d melted into him - he held you so tightly as though the slightest distance could carry you away forever.
“I’m sure she was a wonderful woman,” you said, kissing him beneath his ear. “She gave me you, and a few more sisters and brothers besides.”
He smirked but didn't let go for a moment. "Could’ve just stopped at me, my precious wife."
You smiled, not falling for his little act. He tried to play it off as a joke, to hide his weakness - but you wouldn't let him. Not here. Not with you.
“I’m here,” you whispered, leaving small kisses to soothe the tremble he desperately tried to suppress.
His hands roamed across your back, fingers spread wide, his breathing deep and rapid. He clung to you like his life depended on it, and you didn't complain.
You could feel it. He didn't say much, but you knew. He needed you just as much as you needed him.
“You’ll always be here,” he said in a voice so low you’d hardly have heard it unless you were right there. “You’ll never leave me.”
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he cannot stand your tears.
In all the time you’ve spent here, you had never shed a tear. There was no reason to - everything you needed was already yours. People starved, gave their lives for the land; a princess's tears would have seemed ridiculous.
But this time you couldn't keep it in.
It was supposed to be an ordinary day like any other - jousts, a feast honouring the noble guests. Yet everything went wrong when word reached you that Aerion had lost his mind and broken the fingers of an innocent girl.
Your heart ached for the girl who had only been playing and having fun, unaware of how it would all turn out.
He would never hurt you, but that didn’t make it any easier seeing him harm another so calmly.
The door opened and you sensed his heavy steps before you heard them. You didn't give him your usual gentle smile - the one he's used to seeing from you.
"She mocked our family, our very blood," he said. There was a note of irritation in his voice at having to justify his actions so openly to you.
Dragons owed nothing to anyone. They acted, and they took pleasure in the results. Yet here he stood behind you, covered in blood and still proud, unable to bear even the thought that you might be hurting.
You didn't respond.
"This is treason," he continued, unused to your silence.
You were barely holding back your tears - you didn't want him to see them. Not from shame, never. But because crying wouldn't change anything. But what he said next shattered you completely and your gentle heart couldn't take it anymore.
"She's lucky it was just her fingers. I’d have taken her head if I’d told the King."
A quiet sob escaped you, one you couldn't hold back.
It was foolish. You knew the man he was. Even softened by you, dragon blood still ran through him. And you knew why he was frustrated, why that play had offended him so deeply - after all, his bloodline had been insulted, ridiculed.
And yet the image of a young girl of your age appeared before your eyes; her gaze swimming with tears, her hands powerless.
At first, Aerion froze at the sound. You’ve never cried, he thought. You’ve never looked away from him.
Then, as if the realization struck him, he strode across the room and turned you to face him, gently taking you by the elbow.
His eyes wandered across your face, as if he physically needed to ensure you were unharmed. You knew he would behead anyone who even dared think of hurting you.
And for the first time that didn't bring you any comfort.
It didn't scare you either - he had never scared you. He was your husband, the other part of your soul and you would always choose him. You would always stand by his side.
Still, a tiny piece of sorrow remained inside you – a quiet awareness that no one else would ever know just how loving and caring he could be.
He would always be a monster to them.
His eyes didn't leave yours, which were now red and swollen from tears that wouldn't stop falling. You noticed the frown that crossed his face as he realized why you were like this.
He leaned in and kissed your damp, flushed cheeks, letting his lips linger a moment longer than expected.
“Dragons do not pardon traitors, my love,” he said softly, confused as to why you were so concerned about a mere commoner, unworthy of any of your attention. Your normally bright face was covered with such a deep sorrow that his heart ached.
I’ll let her go,” Aerion murmured. “Would that make you feel better?”
You nodded slowly, still unsure whether he would keep his promise, unsure whether your wish alone could tame his temper. “Yes, my love.”
His eyes remained on you, studying your face for the smallest sign of doubt that might hurt you further. When he found none, he nodded and pulled you into his arms.
Summary: A mission meant to be routine becomes a race against the clock when you’re bitten, and the only antivirals are destroyed. With the infection spreading and time running out, Leon Kennedy abandons everything except the one objective that matters: getting you back alive.
Warnings/tags: bite injury (reader), infection themes (fever, delirium), mentions of blood/wounds, mission-related violence, guns, angst, protective leon
The hallway smells like antiseptic and old rain, sharp enough to taste at the back of your throat. Emergency lights pulse a slow red, painting everything in the color of a heartbeat that refuses to settle. Somewhere deeper in the facility, something metallic groans, the sound carrying through the walls like the building itself is shifting in its sleep.
Leon moves ahead of you with that familiar economy, every step deliberate, shoulders slightly rounded forward as if he's braced against a wind no one else can feel. Years ago, you would have called it tension. Now you know it's simply how he stands when he's ready to protect something.
You.
He lifts one hand without looking back. Two fingers. Hold. You stop immediately, rifle angled down but ready, covering the rear out of habit. Your breathing slows to match his. In the quiet, you can hear it, the faint rasp of fabric as he adjusts his grip, the tiny click of leather at his wrist. He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes catching red light, and the corner of his mouth tilts.
"Tell me you hear that too," he murmurs.
"Ventilation system struggling to keep up with poor life choices," you whisper back.
His mouth twitches a little more. "Comforting."
"Very."
He turns forward again, advancing with a careful sidestep around a fallen gurney. You follow close, boots landing where his did, stepping into the spaces he clears without thinking. Years of missions have worn this path between you into muscle memory. You could navigate a battlefield blind if he were moving ahead of you.
Sublevel three, quarantine wing. The official report had said that the outbreak was contained. Minimal hostiles. Data retrieval only. You and Leon had both read that and packed extra ammunition.
Something scrapes faintly above you. You both stop again. A wet sound follows, soft but unmistakable, like raw meat dragged across tile. Leon's shoulders go rigid. He tilts his head, listening, then slowly raises his pistol toward the ceiling vent ten feet ahead.
"Don't," you breathe.
Too late. The grate explodes outward in a shower of dust and rusted screws. A shape drops hard onto the floor between you, limbs hitting at angles that don't belong to anything living. The body spasms once, twice, then snaps upright with a sound like tearing cloth. Its eyes are wrong. Its mouth is wrong.
Leon fires twice. The creature barely stutters before lunging. You're already moving. Your rifle cracks, recoil thudding into your shoulder as you pivot left to avoid Leon's line of fire. The rounds chew through rotten muscle, splashing something dark across the wall. The thing keeps coming anyway, a puppet yanked forward by invisible strings.
"Persistent," you mutter.
"Understatement."
It reaches Leon first. He sidesteps, grabs a fistful of its ruined jacket, and uses the momentum to sling it into the wall hard enough to dent the drywall. Before it can recover, he drives a knife up under its jaw with brutal precision. The body convulses, fingers clawing weakly at his sleeve, then goes slack.
For a moment, the only sound is your breathing and the slow drip of something unpleasant onto the tile. Leon exhales through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. He wipes the blade on the creature's shirt before sheathing it, movements efficient, practiced, almost weary.
"You okay?" he asks without turning.
"Fine."
He turns anyway, eyes scanning you head to toe, checking for tears in fabric, blood that isn't yours, the small tells you can't hide from him even if you tried. His gaze lingers on your face a second longer than necessary.
"Your heart rate's up."
"So is yours."
"Occupational hazard."
You step closer, bump your shoulder lightly against his arm. "You jumped."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I adjusted my stance."
You snort. "Sure you did, hero."
His hand comes up automatically, settling at the small of your back as he guides you past the body. The touch is brief, grounding, gone almost before you register it. He does it all the time now, in doorways, on stairs, whenever the path narrows. Years ago he used to keep that kind of contact locked away behind professionalism. Marriage burned that barrier down to ash.
"Remind me why we didn't retire somewhere with a beach," you say quietly.
"You hate sand."
"I could learn."
"You said that last time. Then you threw a shoe at a seagull."
"It started it."
He huffs, a sound that might be the ghost of a laugh. "We're not buying a coastal property just so you can wage war on wildlife."
"Coward."
They're soft words, familiar words, the kind that live comfortably between you, even in places like this. Especially in places like this. If you stop talking, the silence fills up with too many ghosts.
Ahead, the corridor splits. One path descends into deeper shadow. The other ends at a reinforced door marked MEDICAL ISOLATION.
Leon studies it, jaw tightening slightly. "That's our best bet for antiviral storage."
"And our worst bet for everything else."
"Probably."
He reaches for the panel. It flickers, unresponsive.
You lean in, shoulder brushing his. "Stand back."
"I am standing back."
"Further."
He sighs but obeys, stepping aside as you pull a compact breaching charge from your pack and set it against the seam. Your hands move quickly, efficiently, though you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.
"Try not to blow yourself up," he says.
"Try not to worry so loudly."
"I don't worry."
You glance up. "Leon."
"...I worry a normal amount."
You smile despite yourself. "Uh huh."
You trigger the charge and pivot away, grabbing his vest to pull him with you behind the corner. The explosion is sharp, contained, dust puffing into the air like a violent exhale. When the ringing fades, the door hangs crooked on shattered hinges. Leon looks down at where your hand is still gripping his gear. His expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with combat.
"You can let go," he says gently.
You realize you're still holding on and release him, suddenly aware of how solid he feels under your fingers, how warm even through layers of tactical fabric.
"Right," you say, clearing your throat. "Professional."
"Very."
But he brushes your knuckles once before moving past you, so quick it could almost be an accident.
Inside, the medical wing is colder, air conditioning still struggling on backup power. Cabinets hang open, supplies scattered across the floor as if someone had tried to pack in a hurry and failed. A hospital bed sits abandoned in the center of the room, sheets twisted into ropes. You sweep left. Leon sweeps right. The familiar dance resumes. For a few seconds, nothing moves.
Then something thumps weakly from behind the bed. You both pivot, weapons raised. A figure drags itself into view, lab coat smeared dark, face gray with fever. Human. Barely.
"Help," he croaks.
Leon lowers his weapon first, but doesn't relax. "You're infected?"
The man nods frantically, clutching his side. "Bite... hours ago... there's... antivirals... storage fridge... code..."
His hand trembles as he points toward a small sealed unit in the corner. Hope flickers, fragile and dangerous. You step forward. Leon catches your arm immediately.
"Careful," he murmurs.
"I know."
His grip tightens just a fraction before he lets go, thumb brushing your sleeve as if memorizing the texture.
The man coughs wetly, body shaking. "Please... I don't want to... turn..."
Leon's jaw flexes. You can see the calculation in his eyes, the grim understanding of how this story usually ends. You move past him anyway, crouching by the fridge, fingers already working the manual override. The seal pops with a soft hiss. Inside, rows of vials gleam faintly in the emergency light, liquid clear and precious as water in a desert.
"Jackpot," you whisper.
Behind you, the man makes a sound that isn't quite human.
Leon's voice snaps sharply. "Back."
You turn just in time to see the change sweep across the man's face, muscles locking, eyes clouding over like frost creeping across glass. Too fast. Leon fires once. The body collapses before it can lunge.
Silence crashes down, heavy and absolute. Your hands are still wrapped around the cold vial when Leon steps in close, one hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin. He leans his forehead briefly against your temple, a gesture so intimate it almost hurts.
"Hey," he murmurs. "Stay with me."
"I'm here."
"Good."
"Leon," you say, unable to keep the lift out of your voice. "We've got—"
The ceiling tile above the doorway caves in with a thunderous crack. Something drops through in a tangle of limbs and teeth. Leon fires before it even lands.
The room detonates into motion. Another body slams through the door behind it, then another, drawn by noise or scent or whatever twisted instinct drives them now. The first infected hits the floor crawling, jaw snapping, fingers scrabbling for purchase on slick tile.
"Back!" Leon snaps.
You're already moving, grabbing the case and pivoting away from the fridge as gunfire shatters the sterile quiet. Your rifle kicks against your shoulder, rounds punching into torsos that refuse to care. The air fills with the acrid stink of cordite and something fouler underneath.
One lunges for your legs. Leon intercepts it, boot driving into its chest hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. He doesn't even look as he fires downward, ending it with clinical precision.
More are coming. The hallway beyond the ruined door is a writhing mass of shapes pushing over each other, hungry, relentless. The lab equipment rattles as something heavy slams against the wall.
"Too many," you shout.
"Move!"
You sidestep, firing, trying to carve space, trying not to hit Leon as he crosses your line. Your shoulder clips the edge of the bed. The case slips in your grip for half a second.
A larger infected barrels through the doorway, body swollen, movements jerky but powerful. It collides with a rolling cart, sending metal instruments clattering across the floor like thrown knives. Leon pivots to engage, emptying three rounds into its upper chest. The creature staggers backward. Straight into the open refrigerator. Glass explodes.
The sound is high and crystalline, almost delicate beneath the gunfire, like a chandelier being smashed in a ballroom no one will ever dance in again. Vials shatter against metal shelves, against tile, against each other. Clear liquid splashes across the floor, instantly indistinguishable from the spreading mess of everything else. You see it happen in horrible, slow clarity. Hope, reduced to glittering debris.
"Leon!"
He fires again, dropping the brute for good. The body collapses forward, crushing what remains of the storage rack beneath its weight. For one stunned heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then another infected claws over the fallen bulk, and survival yanks you back into motion. You fire. Leon fires. Bodies drop. The noise is deafening, claustrophobic, relentless until at last the hallway falls silent again, littered with unmoving shapes.
Your ears ring. Smoke hangs in the air like a dirty veil. Slowly, cautiously, Leon lowers his weapon. His gaze drifts past the carnage to the refrigerator, to the floor, to the glittering field of broken glass and spilled medication soaking uselessly into grout lines and fabric and things you don't want to identify. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you. The man on the bed has gone very still. His eyes stare at the ceiling, clouded over, whatever fragile thread holding him to himself finally snapped in the chaos. A drop of liquid slides off the shelf edge and hits the tile with a soft, final tick.
Leon exhales, long and controlled, like he's forcing the air out through a space too small for it. "...We'll find more," he says quietly.
He steps closer to you, one hand settling on your shoulder, firm and grounding. His thumb moves once, a brief stroke through dust and sweat, as if confirming you're still solid beneath his palm.
"You hurt?" he asks.
You shake your head, throat tight. "No."
"Good."
His hand lingers a moment longer, then drops. He scans the room again, already shifting back into mission mode, but the tension in his jaw has sharpened, lines around his eyes etched deeper by the red emergency light.
"Storage areas are usually clustered," he says. "If there was one unit, there are probably others."
You nod because he needs you to nod. Because forward is the only direction that exists anymore.
Together, you step around the shattered glass and the ruined promise it once held, boots crunching softly with every movement, and head back into the corridor where the dark waits patiently for you to return.
The corridor beyond the lab is narrower, older, the walls traded from clean hospital white to poured concrete stained by decades of leaks and neglect. Emergency lights hum overhead, casting everything in a tired amber glow that feels less like an alarm and more like a dying sunset that forgot to go away. Your boots echo differently here. Hollow. The sound carries too far.
Leon slows without saying anything, adjusting his pace until you're shoulder to shoulder instead of single file. His arm brushes yours with each step, solid and reassuring in a way that feels deliberate without calling attention to itself. After a minute, you realize he's listening to your breathing.
"You know," you say quietly, "most couples go to dinner."
He huffs under his breath. "We tried that."
"You got a call."
"We both got a call."
"I didn't even get to eat my pasta."
"You ordered something with fourteen ingredients I couldn't pronounce."
"That's not a crime."
"It should be."
You bump his shoulder lightly. "You promised dessert."
"I'll buy you dessert."
"You said that last time."
"I meant it last time, too."
His hand comes up automatically, resting on your back as the corridor narrows, guiding you around a fallen chunk of concrete. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.
"When this is over," he adds quietly, "we'll go somewhere that doesn't have reception."
You glance at him. "You're serious."
"Dead serious."
A small smile pulls at your mouth. "You'd last two days."
"I'd last three."
"Two and a half."
He considers it like it's a tactical estimate. "Two and a half."
The next door is heavier than the others, industrial steel with a small wired-glass window clouded by years of grime. A faded placard reads BIO STORAGE B in letters that have peeled into something ghostlike and hard to trust.
Leon raises a hand automatically, stopping you just short of the threshold.
"Hold."
You halt with your boot inches from the seam, rifle angled down but ready. He steps past you, placing himself between you and the door without thinking about it. He always does that. As if the hinge of the world were located somewhere in his spine.
He wipes a sleeve across the glass and peers through, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the dim interior. "Don't see movement," he murmurs. "Shelving units. Containers. Could be clear."
"Could be."
He glances back at you, reading your face the way other people read weather. "You good?"
"Always."
One eyebrow lifts. Not convinced.
You roll your shoulder where your gear has started to dig in, trying to work out the stiffness before it becomes a problem. "Just cramped."
"Switch packs with me."
"I'm fine."
"That wasn't a suggestion."
"It wasn't an order either."
For a moment, you just look at each other, the quiet argument unfolding in expressions instead of voices. Married diplomacy in a war zone.
Finally, he exhales through his nose, conceding the point without admitting defeat. His hand comes up instead, settling briefly at the side of your neck, thumb brushing the muscle there in a grounding stroke.
"Tension," he says softly.
"Observation skills of a seasoned agent."
"Comes with the badge."
"You don't even carry a badge."
"Metaphorical badge."
You lean into his touch for half a second before you can stop yourself. He notices. His thumb stills, then presses lightly once more before he lets his hand fall away.
"Stay behind me on entry," he says, voice shifting, professional edges sliding back into place.
"I take left. You take right," you counter automatically.
He gives you a look. You give him one right back.
"...Fine," he mutters at last. "But if I say fall back, you fall back."
"Yes, dear."
His mouth twitches despite himself. "Don't 'yes, dear' me in a mission."
"Yes, sir," you salute.
Leon grunts and shakes his head, trying not to smile. You reach past him to test the handle. Locked.
"Stand clear," you say.
He moves aside this time without commentary, covering the door while you pull a compact bypass tool from your vest. The metal is cold against your fingers, humming faintly as it interfaces with the ancient locking mechanism.
For a few seconds, the only sounds are the tool's soft electronic chirp and your breathing. Then the mechanism clicks. You don't open it immediately. Instead, you glance sideways at him. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tiny scar along his jaw, the exhaustion he carries like a shadow that never quite detaches.
"After this," you say quietly, "we're getting that dessert."
He studies you for a long beat, something unspoken passing through his expression. A deep, stubborn refusal to imagine a future where that doesn't happen.
"Yeah," he says at last, voice low and certain. "We are."
Your hand brushes his wrist as you shift your grip on the handle. He turns his palm just enough to catch your fingers, squeezing once, firm and warm. A promise disguised as reflex. Then he releases you, raises his weapon, and nods.
"On you."
You pull the door open. Cold air spills out, stale and chemical, carrying the faint scent of something spoiled long before anyone stopped coming down here. The room beyond is a maze of tall storage racks and plastic containers, shadows pooling thick between them like standing water.
Leon moves through the doorway first, silent, precise, clearing angles with ruthless efficiency. You follow a half-step behind despite earlier negotiations, covering what he can't see, trusting him to do the same.
All you hear is the hum of failing lights. The soft creak of metal settling. The distant, almost inaudible drip of water somewhere in the dark.
Leon lifts two fingers, signaling pause. You freeze. He tilts his head, listening.
"...Thought I heard something," he whispers.
You hold your breath. The room holds its breath too. Then, very softly, something shifts deep between the shelves. A scrape. Leon's posture tightens, every line of him sharpening toward the sound.
"Stay close," he murmurs.
You move in beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him grounding against the cold air of the room.
"Always do," you whisper back.
The air grows colder the farther you go, heavy with the stale tang of chemicals and something faintly organic beneath it, like fruit left too long in a sealed container. Your flashlight beam skims across plastic bins, sealed crates, labels bleached into illegibility. Dust floats in slow spirals each time you move, disturbed ghosts reluctant to settle again.
Leon advances at a measured pace, weapon steady, shoulders tight enough to telegraph that he hasn't liked this room from the moment the door opened. You mirror him, covering the angles between shelving units, eyes darting through the narrow gaps where shadows knit together into something almost solid. Another scrape, closer this time.
A container shifts on a shelf to your left with a soft plastic thud, tipping just enough to rock in place. Your rifle swings toward it automatically.
"Probably just settling," you whisper.
Leon doesn't answer. He takes one careful step forward, angling to get a better view past the rack. The beam of his light cuts across the gap, illuminating stacked boxes, a collapsed cart, nothing that looks immediately threatening.
Your shoulders start to loosen. That's when the hands shoot out of the darkness. They clamp around your calf, iron strong, nails digging through fabric as something drags itself from beneath the lowest shelf with a wet, hungry sound. You don't even have time to shout before you're yanked off balance.
"Leon—!"
He pivots instantly, dropping his aim to avoid hitting you as you hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The infected is half-crushed, lower body mangled, but its arms work just fine. Its mouth snaps inches from your boot, teeth clacking together with a sound that vibrates up your bones.
You kick, connecting with its face, but it barely registers the impact. Its grip tightens, hauling you closer, closer, jaws opening wide enough to show the slick black of its throat.
Leon moves. He doesn't fire. Too risky. Instead, he lunges forward, grabbing the back of your vest and hauling you backward with brutal force. The infected comes with you, still latched on, dead weight and fury combined.
"Let go!" he snarls, driving his boot into its shoulder.
Bone cracks. The grip loosens just enough for him to wrench you free, dragging you behind him as he finally gets a clear shot. Two rounds. Point-blank.
The body jerks, collapses, and goes still. For a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing and the thunder of your pulse. Leon stays crouched in front of you, one arm braced across your chest like a barricade, gun still trained on the corpse in case it decides death is negotiable.
"Hey," he says, voice low, urgent. "Hey. Look at me."
You blink, vision swimming, lungs finally remembering how to work. "I'm... I'm good."
His eyes scan you anyway, fast and thorough, hands already moving, checking arms, shoulders, gear, the way he always does. Routine. Training. Care disguised as procedure. Then his hand stops at your leg.
The fabric of your pants is torn where the creature grabbed you. Dark spreads through the rip, wet and unmistakable even in the dim light. Leon goes very still. Slowly, carefully, he pulls his glove off with his teeth and tosses it aside. His bare hand is warm when it closes around your ankle, steady but not gentle as he angles your leg into the beam of his flashlight.
You follow his gaze. For a second, your brain refuses to interpret what you're seeing. Just shapes. Color. Shine. Then it resolves. Deep teeth marks on your ankle. Blood wells from the punctures, thick and bright, running down into your boot.
"Oh," you say softly.
Leon doesn't speak. His jaw tightens so hard a muscle jumps along his cheek. His thumb presses near the wound, not enough to hurt, just enough to assess depth, damage, and reality.
"How bad?" you ask, because someone has to.
He inhales slowly through his nose, like he's trying to pull the air all the way down to somewhere that doesn't exist anymore.
"...Through the muscle," he says at last, voice roughened at the edges. "No arterial spray."
You almost laugh. Of course, that's what he notices. Of course, he frames it in survivable terms.
"Good news," you murmur.
His eyes snap to yours, sharp, bright, furious at something that isn't you. "Don't."
The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Silence floods back in, thick as the dust hanging in the air. Carefully, he releases your leg only long enough to tear open a pouch on his vest. Gauze. Compression wrap. His hands move with practiced efficiency, but there's a tremor there now, small and stubborn, like a fault line threatening to split.
"This won't stop it," you say quietly.
"I know."
He presses the gauze down anyway, firm, unyielding, as if pressure alone could force time to behave.
"You didn't get grabbed anywhere else?" he asks without looking up.
"No."
"Scratch? Contact with fluid?"
"No, Leon."
He nods once, wrapping the bandage tight enough to hurt. You don't complain. Pain feels reassuringly human. When he finishes, he doesn't pull away. His hands remain braced on your leg, head bowed slightly, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. From this angle, you can see the faint silver threaded through his hair, the lines carved deeper by worry than age. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his jaw. He freezes.
"Hey," you say softly.
His eyes close for one heartbeat, leaning just slightly into your touch, like a man starving who just found water. Then he opens them again, focus snapping back into place with visible effort.
"We're moving," he says, voice low and absolute. "There will be another storage area. Another lab. Something."
You nod because you believe him. Because you have to. Because you don't want this to be the end. Because you don't want Leon to have to go through that. Because you want your dessert.
He rises first, then offers you his hand. When you take it, he pulls you up carefully, keeping his other hand hovering at your waist in case you falter. You put weight on the leg. It holds, though pain flares hot and sharp.
"Can you walk?" he asks.
"Yeah." A lie. A manageable one.
He doesn't call you on it. Instead, his arm slides around your back, anchoring you against his side as you take your first step. Protective. Supportive. Refusing to let distance exist.
"Stay with me," he murmurs.
Your head rests briefly against his shoulder, just for a second.
"Always," you whisper.
Adrenaline still burns hot in your veins, dulling the edges, convincing your body it can outrun consequences if it just keeps moving. Leon keeps his arm locked around you, pace adjusted to match yours without comment. Not slow enough to feel patronizing, not fast enough to make you stumble. Perfect. Infuriatingly perfect.
"You don't have to babysit," you murmur.
"Good," he says quietly. "Because I'm not."
His hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading as if to support more of your weight without making a show of it. The corridor slopes downward. Each step sends a dull shock up your leg, deeper now, heavier, like the pain has roots instead of edges. You grit your teeth and keep going. After a dozen paces, something else creeps in. A warmth. Not the healthy kind. Not exertion. This feels wrong, thick and syrupy, pooling under your skin like fever deciding where to settle. You swallow. Your throat feels dry. Too dry.
"Leon," you start, then stop, because you're not sure what you were going to say.
He glances at you immediately. "What?"
"Nothing. Thought I heard something."
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he shifts you a little closer, your hip brushing his with every step now, a steady rhythm of contact that keeps you oriented.
The lights flicker overhead. For a split second, the world tilts. You blink hard, waiting for it to right itself. It does, but not completely. The edges of your vision feel soft, as if someone smeared petroleum jelly across reality.
"Hey," Leon says quietly.
You realize you've slowed. "I'm fine."
He stops anyway.
"No," he says, voice calm and immovable as bedrock. "You're not."
Before you can argue, a shape lurches from a side passage ahead. Its movements are jerky and uneven, its head twitching like a broken marionette. Leon eases you behind him with one hand, weapon already up. He takes it out, waiting a few seconds to make sure it's down.
When he turns back to you, his focus narrows, shutting out the rest of the world. "Sit," he says.
You shake your head. "We don't have time."
"Sit."
There's no edge in it. No raised volume. Just absolute certainty that this is happening. Your legs decide for you. The moment you stop resisting, they wobble, knees threatening to fold. Leon catches you instantly, one arm wrapping around your back, the other under your uninjured leg, guiding you down against the wall with careful control.
The concrete is cold through your gear. It feels strangely good. He crouches in front of you, close enough that your boots nearly touch his knees. Up close, you can see every tiny tension line in his face, every sleepless hour etched into skin that has forgotten what "rested" means.
His bare hand comes up again, settling against your neck, fingers sliding to your pulse point. You shiver.
His brows draw together. "You're burning up."
"Shock," you say weakly.
"You know that's not true."
His thumb presses lightly, counting. You can feel the rhythm under his skin, your heart hammering like it's trying to break out of your chest.
"Too fast," he murmurs, mostly to himself.
A tremor runs through your hands. Small at first, then stronger, fingers twitching against your thigh as if they belong to someone else and forgot to tell you. You curl them into fists, but it doesn't help. Leon notices. He reaches down slowly, deliberately, and wraps his hand around yours. Not restraining. Anchoring. His grip is warm, solid, impossibly steady compared to the jitter under your skin.
"Look at me," he says softly.
You do. Blue eyes. Tired. Fierce. Terrified in a way he would deny under oath.
"We're going to fix this," he says.
"You don't know that."
"Yes," he says, so simply it almost hurts. "I do."
Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, but the edges keep fuzzing out like a badly tuned signal.
"Everything's... weird," you admit. "Like I'm underwater."
His jaw tightens. "Any nausea?"
"No."
"Dizziness?"
"...Maybe."
"Confusion?"
You hesitate.
His expression darkens. "How long?"
"Ten minutes."
He leans forward suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is gentle, deliberate, his eyes closing for a brief moment like he's drawing strength from proximity alone.
"You stay with me," he murmurs. "You hear me? No drifting."
"I'm right here."
His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there. Making sure you don't slip away. For a few seconds, neither of you moves. Somewhere far off, metal clatters. A distant echo of something collapsing. The facility settling into deeper ruin. You swallow. Your throat feels raw now, like you've been breathing dry air for hours.
"Leon."
"Yeah."
"If I start to..."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sharp. "Don't."
"You need to be ready."
"I am ready."
"That's not what I mean."
His hand tightens at the back of your neck, just enough to stop you from looking away.
"I'm not leaving you," he says quietly. "Save it."
Your chest aches, and not from the bite. You nod because you don't trust your voice. He studies you another moment, memorizing something only he can see, then exhales slowly and shifts back into motion.
"Okay," he says, tone sharpening into mission focus again. "We move in short intervals. Next sector should have auxiliary storage or research offices. More supplies. Maybe antivirals."
"Maybe," you echo.
He rises, then hesitates, looking down at you like he's recalculating physics.
Without warning, he slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees.
You blink. "Leon—"
"Save your strength."
"I can walk."
"I know."
And that's the end of the discussion. He lifts you with controlled ease, settling you against his chest. Your head ends up tucked under his chin, close enough to hear his heartbeat, steady and stubborn as a drum calling soldiers back to formation. You don't argue again. Your hand fumbles for his vest, gripping the fabric as another wave of heat rolls through you, deeper this time, almost nauseating in its intensity.
"Still with me?" he murmurs into your hair.
You nod weakly. "Yeah."
"Good."
He adjusts his hold, one hand splayed protectively across your back, and starts down the corridor again, footsteps measured, unhurried, as if he has decided that time itself can wait its turn. The world sways gently with each step. Your eyelids feel heavy.
Leon's voice cuts through the fog, low and insistent. "Stay awake."
"I'm trying."
"Talk to me."
"About what?"
"Anything."
You think for a long moment, chasing thoughts that scatter like startled birds.
"...Dessert," you mumble finally.
A soft breath leaves him, almost a laugh, almost something else entirely.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."
You clutch his vest a little tighter, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him.
"Don't let me fall asleep," you whisper.
His arms tighten around you, careful but unyielding.
Leon adjusts his grip as you shift in his arms, not because you're heavy, never that, but because your body no longer anticipates his movement the way it usually does. You used to lean into turns before they happened, tighten your hold when he stepped over debris, and match his rhythm without thinking. Now you lag by half a second behind every motion, like your connection to gravity is buffering. He notices. He notices everything.
Your skin is too hot even through layers of fabric. Heat seeps through his sleeves, through his gloves, into his palms like you're burning from the inside out. Your breath ghosts unevenly against his throat, sometimes shallow, sometimes too deep, like your lungs can't agree on a pattern. Fever, he tells himself. Infection. Not the other thing. Not yet. Your fingers twitch where they clutch his vest, loosening, tightening, loosening again.
"Hey," he murmurs quietly. "Still with me?"
A pause. "...Yeah."
The word is slurred at the edges, dragged through molasses. His jaw tightens. He keeps moving.
The corridor stretches ahead in dim amber light, empty except for the occasional smear on the wall or abandoned equipment pushed aside by people who ran out of time. His footsteps are steady, deliberate, conserving energy, minimizing jostling. He's carried wounded before. Teammates. Civilians. Strangers. None of them felt like this. None of them felt like carrying his own heartbeat outside his body.
Your head shifts, cheek pressing against his collarbone. For a moment you go very still, so still that something cold claws down his spine.
"Talk to me," he says, softer now. "You promised."
A long silence. Then, faintly, "Cold."
He stops. A clean halt, like someone pulled a lever inside him. Cold is wrong. You're burning up. He lowers you carefully to one knee without setting you fully down, keeping one arm wrapped around your back so you don't tip sideways. His other hand comes up to your face, bare fingers brushing your cheek. Your skin is blazing. But you're shivering. Small, violent tremors run through you, teeth chattering softly against each other, lashes fluttering as if your body can't decide whether to wake or sleep.
"Hey," he says, sharper now. "Open your eyes."
You do, slowly, unfocused at first. Your pupils look blown wide in the low light, swallowing what little color remains in your irises.
"It's... dark," you mumble.
His chest tightens. The lights are still on.
"I'm right here," he says. "Look at me."
Your gaze drifts, struggles, and finally locks onto his face. Recognition flickers there, fragile but present.
"...Leon."
Relief hits him so hard it almost feels like pain.
"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, it's me."
Your brow furrows faintly, confusion knitting your expression into something painfully vulnerable.
"You look... tired."
He almost laughs. "Occupational hazard," he says quietly.
Your hand lifts weakly, fingers brushing his jaw as if you're mapping terrain you've walked a thousand times but suddenly don't trust your memory of.
"You should sleep," you whisper.
The tenderness in it is what breaks him a little.
"Soon, sweetheart," he says.
Your hand slips, falling back against your chest. Silence stretches. Your breathing grows uneven again.
Then you say, very softly, "Did we make it home?"
The words land like a physical blow. For a second, he can't answer. His throat closes around something sharp and unmanageable.
Home. Not the facility. Not the mission. Not the outbreak. Home. He swallows hard, forcing air back into his lungs.
"Not yet," he says, voice low and steady by sheer force of will. "Working on it."
Your eyes drift past him, unfocused, as if you're looking at something over his shoulder that isn't there.
"...Smells like coffee," you murmur. "Burned it again."
His vision blurs. He blinks hard, refocusing on the concrete wall behind you. You're not smelling coffee. There is no coffee. There hasn't been coffee in hours. Just dust and chemicals and rot. Hallucinations, a cold voice in his mind supplies. Neurological involvement. He hates that voice.
Your lips curve faintly, a sleepy little smile that belongs in a sunlit kitchen, not here. "You always do that," you mumble. "Say you're watching it, then forget..."
Your head tips sideways, resting against his arm. Your eyelids droop. Panic slices through him, clean and immediate.
"Hey," he says sharply, fingers tightening on your shoulder. "No. Stay with me."
You stir weakly. "...'m tired."
"I know."
"So tired."
His thumb presses against your pulse again. Still fast. Too fast.
"You can sleep when we're home," he says, leaning closer, voice dropping to something rough and urgent.
Your eyes open a sliver.
"...Promise?"
The question is so small it barely exists.
He bows his head until his forehead rests against yours, eyes closing for one heartbeat, he allows himself.
"Yeah," he whispers. "I promise."
He doesn't know if he's promising sleep, survival, or something else entirely. It doesn't matter. Your breathing evens out a little, not better, just slower, drifting toward something that looks dangerously like unconsciousness. Not yet, he thinks fiercely.
He slides one arm under your knees again and lifts you back against his chest, more carefully this time, as if you might come apart if handled too roughly. Your head lolls against his shoulder, then settles in the hollow of his neck, breath hot and damp against his skin.
"Stay with me," he murmurs into your hair. "Just a little longer."
Your fingers twitch weakly against his vest, not gripping anymore, just resting there like they forgot their job.
"...Love you," you whisper, so faint he almost thinks he imagined it.
He stops breathing. The entire world narrows to the weight in his arms and the fragile thread of sound still hanging in the air. His hold tightens, protective, desperate, careful all at once.
"I know," he says quietly, voice breaking on the edges despite his best effort. "I know."
He presses his cheek briefly against your hair, eyes closing, grounding himself in the reality of you. The heat. The softness. The terrifying fragility. Then he straightens and starts moving again, steps faster now, less cautious, urgency bleeding through the discipline he's clung to since this began. Somewhere ahead, there has to be another lab. Another storage room. Another chance. There has to be. Because the alternative is unthinkable, and Leon Kennedy has built an entire life on refusing to accept those.
"Hang on," he murmurs. "I've got you."
The corridor opens into what used to be a patient ward, rows of metal-framed beds bolted to the floor, privacy curtains hanging in limp, dusty folds like flags after a lost battle. Most of the mattresses are stripped bare, plastic covers cracked with age, but the room is quiet. No movement. No shuffling breath. Just the low electrical hum that seems to haunt every corner of this place.
Leon slows, scanning automatically, mapping exits, sightlines, choke points. Good visibility. Single main entrance. Minimal clutter. Defensible. More importantly, close.
A reinforced door at the far end bears a faded hazard symbol and the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stenciled beneath it. The hinges are external. The frame is thicker than standard interior construction. Lab access. Or something close to it.
"Okay," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "This'll do."
He crosses to the nearest intact bed and lowers you with painstaking care, one arm supporting your shoulders, the other guiding your legs so the injured one doesn't twist. The mattress sighs softly under your weight, springs complaining but holding. For a second, he doesn't let go. Your head rolls slightly to one side, hair falling across your face. Your eyes are half-open, unfocused, lashes trembling like you're dreaming with your eyes still in the world.
"Hey," he says quietly, brushing the hair back with fingers that are gentler than anything else he's done today. "Stay with me."
Your gaze struggles to find him. "...Hi," you whisper.
"Hi," he echoes, voice rough.
Your hand lifts weakly, searching. He catches it immediately, folding his larger one around yours, grounding you with solid pressure.
"Where are we?" you murmur.
"Almost there," he says. Not a lie. Not quite the truth. "I need to check something."
Your fingers twitch in his grip, barely there. "...Don't go far."
His throat tightens.
"I won't," he says. "You'll be able to hear me the whole time." That seems to satisfy something in you. Your eyes drift closed, not fully unconscious, just sliding along the edge of it.
He gently lowers your hand to rest against your stomach, then hesitates. After a moment, he reaches up and unzips his jacket, shrugging it off despite the chill. He drapes it over you, tucking it around your shoulders, creating a cocoon of familiar warmth and scent. Leon rests his palm against your cheek one last time, thumb brushing your skin in a soft arc.
He forces himself to stand. Every instinct screams not to leave you. To pick you up and run until the world ends, the cure appears, or both. But the door at the end of the room waits, silent and stubborn, and something in his gut tells him that whatever hope exists is behind it.
He moves. Slow at first, reluctant steps that keep him within arm's reach, then a little farther, turning back every few seconds to make sure you're still breathing, still there, still you. Halfway across the ward, a shape shifts behind a curtain. Leon's weapon is up before the fabric finishes swaying.
A figure stumbles out, skeletal, skin pulled tight over bone, eyes reflecting dull amber in the emergency light. Its mouth opens in a soundless snarl as it lurches toward the nearest movement. Leon intercepts it before it gets anywhere. Two suppressed shots. One to the chest, one to the head. The body collapses in a boneless heap, momentum carrying it forward until it skids to a stop across the tile.
Another groan answers from somewhere deeper in the room. He pivots, firing again, dropping a second infected as it claws its way over a bedframe. Efficient. Controlled. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise. Three heartbeats of silence. He listens, counting breaths. Nothing else rises. Only then does he glance back. You haven't moved. Relief floods through him so sharply his knees almost unlock.
"Still here," he murmurs under his breath, as if confirming it makes it true.
He reaches the reinforced door and tests the handle. Locked. Of course it is.
Up close, the barricade becomes obvious. Heavy shelving units have been shoved against the interior side, metal edges visible through the narrow seam where the door meets the frame. Whoever sealed this room meant to keep something out. Or in.
Leon leans closer, ear to the cold steel. Nothing. No breathing. No scratching. No shifting weight. He steps back and scans the frame. Electronic panel. Dead. Manual override slot intact. Hope stirs, cautious and unwelcome.
He glances over his shoulder again. From here, he can still see you on the bed, small beneath his jacket, chest rising and falling in shallow motions that make his own lungs ache in sympathy.
"Almost there," he says quietly, whether to you or himself, he doesn't know.
From a pouch on his belt, he pulls a compact breaching tool, the metal catching the light as he slots it into the override housing. The device hums softly, vibration traveling up his wrist.
Behind him, the ward remains still.
Then your voice drifts across the room, thin and fragile. "...Leon?"
He spins instantly. Your head has turned toward him, eyes open again, unfocused but searching, panic flickering in the small movement of your hands against his jacket.
"I'm here," he calls, already crossing back toward you. "Right here."
You stare at him as if trying to memorize his face before it disappears. "...Too many," you whisper. "They're everywhere."
"There's nothing here," he says gently. "You're safe."
Your head sinks back into the thin pillow. Consciousness slips away from you like water through open fingers. Leon stays there a second longer than he should, watching your chest rise, fall, rise again. Then he stands and turns back to the barricaded door, something steely settling over him, heavier than anger, sharper than fear.
The tool in his hand whines as it bites into the locking mechanism, sparks spitting in brief, angry bursts. Metal protests. Screws shear. The smell of hot circuitry fills the air.
"Hold on," he murmurs, not looking back this time because he won't stop if he does. "I'm getting us in."
Behind him, the bed creaks softly as you shift in fevered sleep. Ahead, the door shudders as the final bolt gives way. Leon shoves the door inward, the weight of it grinding against the barricade until the gap is wide enough for him to slip through sideways. Inside, a toppled shelving unit leans against the opposite wall, confirming what he already suspected. Whoever sealed this room did it from within and didn't plan on leaving.
The air is colder here. Cleaner. Sterile in that artificial way that smells faintly of alcohol wipes and plastic, like illness reduced to a controlled environment.
Emergency lights glow a sickly green, illuminating rows of lab benches, overturned stools, racks of glassware frozen mid-experiment. Papers lie scattered across the floor, curling at the edges. A monitor flickers weakly on one station, casting a pulsing rectangle of pale light that feels almost alive in the otherwise stagnant room.
Leon clears the space in seconds, weapon sweeping corners, checking behind doors, under desks, anywhere something could hide. Nothing lunges. Nothing breathes. Just abandonment, sudden and absolute, like the people who worked here evaporated mid-sentence.
He lowers the gun a fraction, chest rising and falling a little too fast to be purely tactical.
"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough in the quiet. "Okay."
He moves to the nearest workstation, scanning labels, cabinets, drawers. Chemical reagents. Disposable supplies. Data drives. Everything except what he needs. Another bench. Same story. He opens a refrigerated unit. Empty trays. Frost buildup. Power too low to maintain temperature.
His pulse hammers harder.
Not here. Not here. Not here.
"Come on," he mutters, rifling through containers faster now, less methodical, more desperate. Glass clinks sharply as he shoves aside vials of things that don't matter, powders with long names, syringes sealed in sterile plastic. Nothing labeled antiviral. Nothing labeled serum. Nothing labeled hope. A cold weight settles in his stomach.
He moves to the flickering computer, fingers flying across the keys, waking it from whatever half-dead state it's been trapped in. The screen brightens sluggishly, revealing a login prompt already bypassed, system hanging on by a thread.
"Don't do this to me," he whispers.
Folders populate slowly. Research logs. Incident reports. Containment protocols. He scans titles with ruthless speed, opening anything that looks remotely relevant, eyes burning as line after line of technical jargon scrolls past.
A crash echoes faintly from the ward beyond the door. His head snaps toward the sound. Silence follows. He waits three seconds. Five. Ten. No approach. No impact against the door. No dragging footsteps. Still there, he tells himself. She's still there.
He turns back to the screen, forcing his focus to narrow again. A document catches his eye.
ANTIVIRAL DISPERSION PROTOCOL – EMERGENCY USE
He opens it. Paragraphs of dense instructions spill across the display. Stabilization procedures. Delivery methods. Storage warnings. STORAGE LOCATION: SECURE BIOCONTAINMENT VAULT B-2. His stomach drops. Not here.
Coordinates blink uselessly on the screen, pointing deeper into the facility, farther than he wants to think about, farther than you may be able to survive the trip.
Something inside him finally gives. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, shoulders bowing as if someone just added fifty pounds to his back.
"Damn it," he breathes.
The word fractures on the way out, barely more than air. He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead dropping toward his clenched fists, fighting the surge of helpless fury that threatens to tear through discipline, training, every wall he's built over years of surviving the unsurvivable. Not enough time. Not enough distance. Not enough anything.
Out in the ward, you lie alone on a metal bed, burning up, slipping further away with every second he spends standing here empty-handed. His chest tightens until breathing feels optional.
For one dangerous moment, he imagines walking back out there, picking you up, and never stopping. No cure. No mission. Just distance and denial. Just the selfish hope that if he runs fast enough, the virus won't catch you.
He exhales sharply, dragging himself back from the edge. Running never saved anyone.
"Think," he mutters hoarsely. "Think."
His gaze drifts across the lab again, slower this time, less frantic, searching for patterns instead of miracles. That's when he notices it. A sealed medical kit is mounted on the wall near the exit. Standard emergency issue. Bright white casing. Untouched, pristine compared to the chaos everywhere else. Too pristine. He crosses the room and pops it open. Bandages. Burn gel. Basic trauma supplies. Nothing else.
His shoulders slump. Then his eyes catch a thin seam along the back panel, almost invisible unless you're looking directly at it. Not part of the original design. Too clean. Too deliberate. He taps it with his knuckle. Hollow. Hope flares, sharp and painful.
He wedges a knife into the seam and pries. The panel resists for a second, then snaps free with a brittle crack, revealing a narrow cavity hidden behind the kit.
Inside rests a single reinforced container, matte gray and no bigger than a paperback book, sealed with a biometric latch long since disabled. Not government-issue, but research-grade. Whoever put this here didn't have the chance to get it.
Leon's hands shake as he pulls it free. The lid pops open. Nestled in foam are two glass syringes pre-loaded with clear liquid, labels printed in blocky lab script:
ANTIVIRAL SERUM — FINALIZED STRAIN
For a second, he just stares, brain refusing to trust what his eyes are telling it. Air leaves his lungs in a sound that might be a laugh or might be something closer to a sob strangled before it can exist.
He presses his forehead briefly against the cool plastic case, eyes squeezing shut, letting the relief hit him in one violent wave before he can stop it. Shoulders shake once, twice, a tremor he doesn't bother to control because no one is here to see it. No one except the person who needs him most. He straightens abruptly, wiping a hand across his face, composure snapping back into place like a mask he's worn too long to misplace.
"Hang on," he says, already moving for the door, clutching the case like it's made of glass and prayers. "I'm coming back."
Your skin is still hot. That's the first thing he registers when his palm cups your cheek. Heat floods into his hand, fever-bright, but there's a wrongness to it now, a brittle quality, like warmth without life behind it.
"Hey," he says softly. "I'm back."
No response. Your lashes rest against your cheeks, unmoving. Your mouth is slightly open, breath slipping in shallow threads that barely stir the hair at your temple. The shivering from before has stopped. Your body lies too still beneath his jacket, as if it finally decided movement was optional.
A cold spike of terror drives straight through his chest.
"Hey." Louder this time, but still gentle, still careful, as if volume alone might break you. "Come on. Open your eyes for me."
Nothing. He slides his hand to your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point. It's there. Fast. Thready. Irregular in a way that makes his own heartbeat stumble trying to match it.
"Okay," he breathes, more to himself than to you. "We're okay."
His other hand trembles as he fumbles the case open, snapping it back with a soft plastic crack. The syringes gleam under the emergency lights, their clear liquid looking impossibly calm compared to the storm in his chest. He sets the case on the bed beside you, movements deliberate, controlled, forcing precision where panic wants chaos.
"You're gonna hate this part," he murmurs, fingers working to clear space at your collar, tugging fabric aside so he can reach skin. "But you can yell at me later. I'm counting on it."
Your head lolls slightly with the movement. No protest. No reflexive tension. He swallows hard.
"Hey," he says again, softer now, thumb brushing your jaw in a slow arc. "Stay with me, okay? You don't get to check out early. We still owe each other dessert."
His voice catches on the last word. He pushes through it.
"Remember that place downtown? The one with the ridiculous chocolate cake you said was worth the calories?" A shaky breath. "I figure we'll go there."
He presses his forehead briefly against yours, eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second.
"You hear me? We've got plans."
Your breathing hitches faintly, a tiny irregular stutter that might be a coincidence or might be something else. He latches onto it anyway, desperate for anything that looks like a connection.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Right there. Stay with me."
He lifts the syringe, checks it automatically, habit stronger than fear. No air bubbles. Fluid clear. Needle steady despite the tremor in his hand.
"Okay," he whispers. "Here we go."
He slides his arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough to support you against his chest, cradling you there so the injection won't jostle too much. Your head falls against him, cheek resting over his heart, breath warm and frighteningly faint through the fabric of his shirt.
"You're doing great," he says softly, even though you're doing nothing at all. "Almost there."
The needle presses into your skin.
He hesitates.
Not because he doubts the serum. Because once this is done, there's nothing left to do but wait, and waiting is the one thing he has never learned to survive gracefully.
"Don't be mad," he murmurs. "I'm not giving you a choice."
He depresses the plunger slowly, watching the liquid disappear into you, as if he can track hope molecule by molecule. His other arm tightens around your back, holding you upright, holding you together.
"All right," he says, voice barely above a breath. "You did good. See? Easy."
He withdraws the needle and sets it aside with mechanical care, as if any sudden movement might undo what he's just done. Then he just holds you.
Seconds crawl past, each one stretching thin as wire. Nothing happens. Your breathing remains shallow. Your pulse, when he checks again, is still fast, still erratic. His chest starts to feel tight, air coming harder, like the room has quietly stolen oxygen while he wasn't looking.
"Okay," he says hoarsely. "Sometimes these things take a minute."
He shifts you slightly, thumb stroking your arm in absent circles, the same motion he uses when you're half asleep on long flights or bad nights. Comfort muscle memory kicks in even when the situation is far beyond comfort.
"You're not allowed to do this," he whispers. "You hear me? Not now. Not like this."
Your hand slips from where it rested against his vest, sliding down between you, fingers loose and unresponsive. He grabs it instantly, folding it back into his palm, pressing it against his chest.
"Come back," he says, the words fraying at the edges.
Another long stretch of nothing. Fear blooms, cold and suffocating, filling every hollow place in him. Too late, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. Too slow. Too far gone.
He shakes his head sharply, jaw clenching.
"No," he mutters. "No, you don't get to do that."
He bows over you, pressing his forehead to your hair, eyes squeezed shut, breathing you in like oxygen.
"You promised," he says roughly. "You don't break your promises."
Your pulse stutters under his fingers. He freezes.
There it is again. A strange hitch, a pause that stretches too long, then a sudden rush, as if your heart forgot the rhythm and is trying to find it again. His own heart stops in sympathetic terror.
"Come on," he whispers. "Come on..."
Your body jerks. A sharp, involuntary spasm that arches you slightly against him before you go slack again. Leon sucks in a breath, half panic, half hope colliding in his chest.
Your brow creases faintly, expression tightening as if pain is finally breaking through the fog. A weak sound escapes you, barely audible, more exhale than voice. His grip on you tightens, careful but fierce.
"I know," he murmurs. "I know, sweetheart. It's okay. You're okay."
Your breathing changes, deepening suddenly, as if you're pulling in air like someone surfacing from underwater. It catches, stutters, then comes again, stronger this time, dragging oxygen into lungs that finally seem interested in using it.
"There you go," he breathes, voice shaking openly now. "That's it. Stay with me."
Your fingers twitch weakly against his chest. He presses his cheek against your hair, eyes closing, holding you like you might still vanish if he loosens his grip.
"I've got you," he whispers. "You're okay. I've got you."
He keeps you cradled against his chest, one arm locked around your back, the other braced across your shoulders, hand splayed as if shielding you from something that no longer exists. His cheek rests against your hair, breath uneven, dragging in through his nose, out through parted lips like he's relearning how to do it.
Your pulse is stronger now beneath his fingers. Still fast, still fragile, but steady enough to count. Steady enough to believe in. Only then does the tension start to bleed out of him. It comes all at once.
His shoulders shudder. Not violently, just a small, contained tremor that he tries to swallow down and can't. A sound escapes him, rough and broken, something halfway between a breath and a sob he never intended to make. He tightens his hold instinctively, pressing his face into your hair as if hiding there makes it less real.
"Okay," he whispers hoarsely. "Okay... you're okay."
Warmth hits your scalp. At first, your fogged mind can't place it. Wetness. A second drop follows, sliding along your temple before disappearing into your hair.
Leon doesn't notice. Or he does and can't stop. He bows over you, forehead pressed to the crown of your head, shoulders shaking in small, uneven pulses he's trying desperately to keep silent. Years of training, years of surviving, years of holding everything inside, finally cracking under the simple fact that you are still here.
"I've got you," he murmurs, voice wrecked, words stumbling over each other. "I've got you, I've got you..."
Your fingers twitch. This time, the movement is stronger, a weak curl against his shirt, fabric bunching slightly in your grasp. The sensation filters through layers of fog, heat, exhaustion, and the lingering echo of pain. Consciousness creeps back in like dawn through heavy curtains.
Your throat burns. Your body feels impossibly heavy, as if gravity doubled while you were away. Every muscle aches with a deep, bone-level fatigue that sleep alone could never fix.
Sound reaches you first. A heartbeat. Loud. Steady. Close enough to be yours, except it isn't. Breath above you, hitching, uneven. Fabric shifting faintly with each inhale.
Someone is holding you. You force your eyes open.
The world swims into view in slow, watery shapes. A blurred patch of green light. A shadow that resolves into the curve of a shoulder. Blond strands of hair brushing your cheek.
Leon.
He doesn't notice you're awake yet. His face is buried against your head, one hand cupping the back of your skull with fierce gentleness, thumb moving in tiny, repetitive strokes like he's soothing a nightmare that hasn't ended for him yet.
Your voice comes out as a rasp. "Leon...?"
He freezes. Absolute stillness, like a statue suddenly unsure whether it's allowed to move. Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes are red. Not just glassy, not just tired, but openly, unmistakably wet. Tracks of tears cut through the grime on his cheeks, catching the light as he blinks hard, as if blinking might erase evidence before you can register it.
For a second, he just stares at you, something raw and disbelieving cracking across his face, like he expected this moment and still isn't sure it's real.
"You're..." His voice fails. He clears his throat roughly. "Hey."
You try to smile. It feels wobbly, incomplete. "Hi."
Relief hits him so visibly it's almost painful to watch. His shoulders sag, tension draining out of him like someone cut the strings holding him upright.
"Hey," he repeats, softer this time, thumb coming up to brush your cheek in a careful sweep, as if confirming you're solid. "You're back."
"Was I... gone?"
His jaw tightens. "Not allowed."
You attempt a small laugh. It comes out as a weak breath. His hand slides to the side of your neck, fingers resting over your pulse again, counting, grounding, refusing to trust his eyes alone.
"You scared me," he says quietly.
Your gaze drops to his chest, to the wrinkled fabric where you must have been gripping him earlier. "Sorry."
His head snaps slightly. "Don't."
The word is sharp, then softens immediately.
"Don't apologize," he adds, voice rough. "Just... don't."
You nod faintly. Even that feels like work.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there in his arms, breathing the same air, sharing the same small pocket of reality after hours of separation that happened without distance. Then you notice how tightly he's still holding you.
"Leon," you murmur, "I can't breathe."
He releases you instantly, horror flashing across his face. "Sorry. Sorry."
He shifts his grip, supporting you more carefully, one arm still behind your shoulders but no longer crushing you to him. His other hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing your skin as if he can't quite stop touching you.
"You're okay?" he asks, scanning your face like he's looking for cracks. "Dizzy? Nauseous? Vision?"
"Everything hurts."
He exhales, something that might be relief ghosting through the pain in his expression. "I'll take it."
Your eyes drift past him, taking in the ward, the beds, the dim light. Memory trickles back in jagged pieces. Teeth. Heat. Falling. Darkness.
"...You found it," you whisper.
He nods once. "Yeah, told you we would.
Your mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Yeah. You did."
You study him more closely now, the red around his eyes, the dampness he hasn't fully wiped away, the way he keeps blinking as if his vision is unreliable.
"You were crying," you say softly.
Immediate denial rises to his lips. You can see it form. Then he looks at you. And whatever excuse he was about to give dissolves.
"...Yeah," he admits, voice low. "Maybe a little."
A tear slips free anyway, tracking down before he can stop it. He doesn't bother hiding it this time. Doesn't look away. Just lets it exist.
"You weren't waking up," he says, as if that explains everything. It does.
Your chest aches in a different way now. You lift your hand slowly, muscles protesting, and touch his face. Your thumb brushes the damp track on his cheek, wiping it away with clumsy tenderness.
"I'm here," you whisper.
He leans into your hand without thinking, eyes closing briefly, relief and exhaustion and something deeper collapsing together inside him.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."
He covers your hand with his, pressing it lightly to his skin as if anchoring himself. After a moment, his gaze sharpens again, mission awareness bleeding back in.
"We need to move," he says gently. "Facility's not stable, and we don't know how long before more of them wander in."
You nod, though the idea of standing feels ambitious at best. He notices the hesitation immediately.
"Hey," he says softly. "I've got you."
He shifts, sliding one arm behind your back again, the other under your knees, lifting you with the same careful strength as before, only this time you help a little, arms coming up weakly around his neck. Your head settles against his shoulder.
"Still getting dessert?" you murmur against his collar.
A real smile breaks through at last, small but bright as sunrise after a storm.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."
He turns toward the exit, steps steady, protective hold unyielding but gentle now that he knows you're truly there.
Three days later, the world smells like coffee and clean laundry instead of antiseptic and decay.
Sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, laying soft gold across the rumpled bedspread and the tangle of blankets around your legs. The air is warm, carrying the faint hum of city life from outside, tires on pavement, a distant horn, someone laughing somewhere far below.
Leon sits beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, watching with that quiet intensity he hasn't quite learned to turn off yet. He looks cleaner than before, shaved, hair damp as if he showered quickly and came right back, but the exhaustion still clings to him in the set of his shoulders.
"You're staring," you murmur.
"Monitoring," he corrects.
"You blink?"
"Sometimes."
You huff a small laugh, the motion tugging at sore muscles that remind you exactly how recently everything went wrong. His gaze sharpens instantly, concern flaring before you even realize you winced.
"I'm okay," you assure him.
He searches your face a moment longer, then nods, not convinced but willing to accept it for now.
"You hungry?" he asks.
"Always."
He disappears into the kitchen and returns with coffee and a plate of pancakes that look slightly uneven but deeply sincere. You eat, he watches, tension slowly unwinding from him with each bite you take.
When you finish, you lean back, warm and heavy with food, eyelids drooping in content exhaustion.
"So when is our dessert date?" you ask softly.
Leon goes still. Then he stands without a word and leaves the room again.
You hear the soft thud of the door opening, the faint clink of something ceramic, the careful movements of someone handling something fragile. When he returns, he's holding a small white bakery box tied with a thin ribbon, the bow slightly crooked as if it had to survive transport in a large, impatient hand. He sets it on the bedside table with surprising delicacy.
"I didn't make this," he says gruffly. "Figured we've both suffered enough."
Suspicion and curiosity spark together. You pull the ribbon loose, lifting the lid. Inside sits a slice of decadent chocolate cake, glossy frosting catching the sunlight, layers dark, dense, and unapologetically indulgent.
Your chest tightens.
"You remembered," you whisper.
He shrugs, looking suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall. "You seemed pretty sure it was worth surviving for."
You lift the cake plate slightly and notice something tucked beneath the ribbon, partially hidden against the cardboard.
An envelope. Your fingers hesitate, then slide it free. Leon doesn't look at you. He's staring out the window now, jaw set, shoulders a little too rigid, like he's bracing for impact.
Inside the envelope are two plane tickets. Beach destination. Departure in two weeks. Round trip. Vacation time from work. A hotel confirmation tucked behind them.
For a long moment, you can't speak.
"You said somewhere boring," he mutters quietly, still not turning around. "Figured that would be perfect."
"Leon..."
He finally looks back, expression carefully neutral, but there's something vulnerable in his eyes, something that says this mattered more than he wants to admit.
"You don't have to go," he adds quickly. "If you're not up for travel yet, we can postpone, or cancel, or—"
You set the tickets down and reach for him. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer until he's standing right at the edge of the bed, close enough that you can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat.
"Thank you," you say softly.
Not just for the vacation. Not just for the cake. He understands anyway. His face softens, tension draining into something warm and quiet and deeply relieved.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "Anytime."
You pick up the fork, take a small bite of cake, then hold it out to him. He leans in, accepting it, eyes never leaving yours. For a second, neither of you pulls back, the space between you charged with something gentler than urgency, heavier than simple affection.
"Worth it?" he asks.
You nod. "Absolutely."
You set the plate aside, your hand finding his again, fingers threading through his with familiar ease. He squeezes back immediately, grounding, protective, like he did in the hallway, only now there's no fear behind it. You both crave this closeness after it was almost ripped away just days before.
You tug lightly, coaxing him down to sit beside you on the bed. He goes without resistance, one arm coming around your shoulders automatically, careful of lingering soreness. Your other hand lifts, brushing his cheek where faint redness still lingers if you look closely enough.
"I love you," you whisper.
His eyes close briefly, leaning into your touch in a way he never would in public. Just here, just now, where it's safe to be human.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I love you too."
Leon leans in first. The kiss is slow, gentle, nothing desperate or urgent, just warm lips and shared breath and the simple reassurance of contact. He stills for half a heartbeat, like he's afraid you might break, then melts into it, one hand cupping the back of your head. When you pull back, his forehead follows yours, resting lightly against it, eyes still closed.
"Careful," he murmurs. "Doctor said no overexertion."
You smile. "Pretty sure that wasn't what they meant."
"Still."
His arm tightens around you, drawing you closer until your head rests against his shoulder, fitting there like it always has. His chin settles lightly against your hair, breath warm, steady.
Outside, the city moves on. Inside, time slows to match the rhythm of two people who fought hard for the right to sit in a quiet room and eat cake.
"Two weeks," you murmur.
"Yeah."
"You think you can handle boring?"
He huffs softly. "I'll manage."
You laugh, the sound light and real and alive. His chest rises under your cheek, its vibration grounding you in the best possible way. For a long moment, neither of you says anything else. You just sit there, sunlight warming your skin, fingers loosely entwined, the promise of salt air and quiet days waiting ahead like a horizon you can finally see. Sharing cake, and kisses, and being alive, and together in your home.
Dividers by @uzmacchiato <3
Thanks for reading<3 Just a reminder, my requests are open! I would love to hear from you!
or, Three Times He Undid You (and the One Time You Undid Him)
pairing: valarr targaryen / female reader, valarr targaryen / noble-born reader
tags: arranged marriage, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, affection (kiss at the end)
word count: 6.9k+
note: first ever AKOTSK fanfic i’m posting on here kinda nervous 😅😅 i hope y’all enjoy reading as i did writing this!!! that season finale is just *chef’s kiss* i’m still grieving baelor fr
BEING BORN to a house that had never worn a crown, yet had stood close enough to power that its shadow had shaped generations, was something that did not fail to bring you a sense of pride.
Your family’s strength did not lie in dragons or ancient Valyrian blood. Instead, it held its own through position, through marriages carefully chosen, lands that fed armies, and banners that could be raised—or withheld—at the precise moment they mattered most. Your father had been raised to understand this, and so had you, though his lessons were gentler with you. He had always spoke of duty as one speaks of weather, as though it is inevitable, not cruel, simply there.
It was for this very reason that your name had begun to circulate in the marriage mart far earlier than you would have liked.
At first it had been subtle. With a passing comment at a feast, then a letter bearing a seal from a house just important enough to be deemed insulting. Then, as though the Gods suddenly grew a sense of humor, it grew bolder—lords whose sons stood above your station in title but below it in wisdom, ambition, or worth. Your father listened to them all, calm and unreadable, and sent them away just as quietly.
Some thought him ambitious for it as others thought him reckless, while a few realized how carefully he tread. For while your house was powerful, you were not precisely anywhere near royal. Nevertheless, whispers claimed your father’s endeavors had reached above what was proper, above what was expected, and above what any sensible man would dare hope for.
Because truth be told, no one in the realm truly stood high enough for the firstborn son of the Heir to the Iron Throne. Not really. Not when that son was Valarr Targaryen, grandson to the king, and burdened from birth with a future already written in ink and blood.
When your father finally told you that you would be traveling with him to court—to King’s Landing itself—you did not cry nor did you argue. You only accepted it with poise and listened.
You listened the way you had been taught to listen since childhood, with your spine straight, your hands folded, and your expression carefully composed, not because you were meek, but because you understood that this was not a conversation meant to be won. It was a declaration of inevitability, delivered gently out of love and necessity both. You watched his mouth move, heard the words take shape, and felt them settle into you with a familiar weight.
There was no shock in it, no rupture. Only recognition. And afterward, alone, you sat very still.
You had always known this day would come. You had been raised with too much awareness—too much quiet instruction, too many overheard conversations—for any illusions to survive long. Being cherished in childhood had never meant being ignorant. You were your house’s eldest child, its only one for a time, yes, but that privilege came only with observation, not exemption.
You had learned early what the world allowed you to be, and what it did not.
You could not inherit your house, not truly, no matter how capable you might be. You could not take a sword and earn renown in your own name, no matter how fiercely your heart might have leapt at the idea. And when the time came, you would not marry for love, nor for convenience of your own choosing, nor beneath your station—because your house stood too high to permit indulgence, and too visible to risk misstep.
These truths had never struck you as cruel. They were simply facts, as steady as stone.
There had been moments, once—quiet, fleeting ones—when you had wondered what it might mean to resist, to be radical, to demand a life shaped by your own desires rather than your family’s needs. But even then, you had known such defiance would not exist in a vacuum. It would echo through your house, stain its reputation, burden those who had raised you with care and expectation.
And so you learned a different kind of courage. It is not surrender, but endurance. It is not helplessness, but grace.
You did not rail against the shape of the world. You resolved to walk through it with your head held high, determined to leave your mark within the boundaries drawn for you. If this was the path set before you, then you would tread it with intelligence, with dignity, and with a will that could not be mistaken for passivity.
Still, knowing did not soften the ache of leaving.
The thought of departing your family’s seat—the corridors you could navigate blindfolded, the windows that caught the light just so in the evenings—settled in your chest like a slow farewell. Here, you had been known not as a prospect or a promise, but as yourself. Here, your importance had been intimate, unmeasured by politics or advantage.
At court, you knew, that would change.
You feared many things then. You feared that the noise of court would drown you, that eyes sharper than blades would weigh you and find fault where none had been spoken before, that you would become a piece on a board too vast to understand, moved by hands you might never see. But beneath it all—beneath the fear, beneath the weight of duty—was something quieter all the same.
Curiosity.
It startled you when you recognized it. For all the certainty of what you must become, there was a thrill threaded through the thought of leaving your small, familiar world. There was adventure in seeing more than you had been allowed to imagine, in standing in halls where history was not just told, but made.
You wondered who you would be, there. And you realized, with a calm that surprised you, that you were ready to find out.
King’s Landing did not welcome you gently.
It greeted you with noise and heat and a thousand clashing smells—salt and sweat and smoke, life pressed so close it felt almost indecent. The city sprawled beneath the hill like something alive, restless and watching, and when the gates of the Red Keep opened to you, you understood at once that this was not merely a residence.
It was a statement.
The halls were vast, the ceilings impossibly high, the stone cold beneath tapestries that told stories of conquest and fire. You walked carefully at first, conscious of your posture, your speech, your very breathing—as though the walls themselves were listening.
And then you met him.
You had prepared yourself, in the way one always does when expectation looms large overhead like a grey cloud upon a summer’s day. You had imagined sharpness where kindness might be deemed weakness, distance where familiarity could easily be misread. You had expected a prince shaped entirely by duty, one who is remote, inscrutable, perhaps even faintly bored by the idea of you.
Valarr, in all his subdued glory, was not what you had expected. He was not colder nor crueler than that of your assumptions, not distant in the way the rumors at court liked to paint the princes of this particular house—aloof creatures carved from stone, legacy, and ceremony.
If anything, he was… careful.
From the first moment, you noticed it in the way he held himself, with his shoulders squared but never looming, his chin lifted without arrogance, his eyes (bright and magnetic with different shades each) attentive rather than assessing. He bowed—not perfunctorily, not lazily, but properly. His voice, when he greeted you, was even and measured, as though he feared saying too much more than saying too little.
Prince Valarr was polite to a fault, thoughtful in a way that bordered on restraint. He spoke to you as one might approach a skittish horse—slowly, deliberately, always allowing you room to step back if you wished. It was not disinterest, you could sense that clearly enough. Rather, you distinguished it as caution. An awareness that this meeting was not merely social, not merely courteous, but consequential.
You, in turn, found yourself doing the same.
Your hands felt suddenly foreign to you. You were acutely aware of where you stood, how long you held his gaze, how carefully you chose your words. You smiled when appropriate, nodded when expected, and wondered—briefly, absurdly—if he could hear the way your heart insisted on beating just a touch too fast.
The awkwardness was fortunately mutual.
There was a stiffness to those first exchanges, a shared understanding humming beneath every sentence: We are not only meeting one another. We are being measured. Futures hovered between the two of yoh, unspoken but present, shaping the air around you into something heavier than it ought to have been.
Every word felt weighed. Every pause, deliberate.
It was, mercifully, the Heir apparent, Prince Baelor Targaryen, and your father who carried the conversation in those early moments—men well-versed in the art of smoothing tension with diplomacy and practiced warmth. They spoke of roads and harvests, of shared histories and mutual obligations, filling the space you and Valarr could not yet navigate without stumbling as though having just learned the act of socializing. You were entirely grateful for it.
Left alone too long, you suspected the silence might have grown teeth and gnawed at you both.
By the merciful will of the Gods, however, time did its quiet work, as it always does.
Days passed. Then weeks. You shared meals in long halls where voices overlapped and laughter softened the edges of formality. You took walks in the palace gardens where others lingered nearby, always within sight, always within propriety. You were never alone together—not truly—but you found, more often than not, that you ended up beside one another all the same. At the same table, the same bench, the same stretch of path.
Conversation grew easier when it was no longer forced to bear the weight of first impressions. You learned the sound of his laugh, a sound melodically soft, oft surprised, as though amusement caught him unawares. You noticed how his mismatched eyes—one violet, one brown—brightened when he spoke of things he cared about, and how he grew quieter when the subject turned to duty.
In him, you recognized something familiar. A young person standing at the edge of a life already decided, trying to step forward with dignity.
Friendship bloomed first between you, like a fragile little flower. It was unassuming, tentative, built not in grand gestures, but in small consistencies—in shared observations during dull dinners, in brief smiles exchanged across crowded rooms, in the comfort of knowing someone else understood the strange balance between expectation and selfhood.
You learned how to exist beside one another without constantly touching the future that loomed ahead. How to speak freely without every word becoming a promise. How to let moments be simply what they were. And in doing so, he became someone you sought out. Not because you were expected to, but because his presence steadied you.
By the time you realized your heart had begun to soften, it had done so quietly. There was no single moment to blame—no thunderbolt, no dramatic turn. Just the gradual, undeniable truth that when you looked for him in a room, it was instinct rather than intention guiding your gaze. And with that realization came another—that it might already be too late to turn back.
Somewhere between shared glances and easy conversation, between duty and choice, history—ever watchful, ever patient—had begun to take note.
I. THE FIRST TIME
THE IDEA had been yours. And truly, that alone should have warned him off.
As is already evident, you had arrived in King’s Landing a few moons prior, escorted beneath banners and watchful eyes, announced and observed and known. Every step you had taken since crossing the city gates had been measured, guarded, or catalogued. When you walked the streets, it was always with men-at-arms flanking you, with whispers following in your wake—a guest of the Crown, a noble daughter under consideration, someone to be watched.
You had seen King’s Landing, yes. But you had never experienced it. You hadn’t experienced the city the way the smallfolk did, not the way the city breathed when it forgot itself. Not even without the weight of recognition pressing between your shoulders.
So you had suggested cloaks. Plain ones, with the hoods drawn low. No sigils or banners or pesky guards. To your surprise, Valarr had laughed—and then agreed. Even so much as divulging a secret passageway that could be accessed through a wall in his chambers.
You were both quietly grateful that neither of you bore the unmistakable silver-blonde hair so often associated with House Targaryen, now walking down unbothered in the streets of the city. His hair was dark save for the strand (easily concealed), his features subdued enough that, beneath a cloak, he could pass for any well-born youth. You, too, blended easily. Together, you became anonymous in a way neither of you had ever been allowed to be.
Sneaking through the city in broad daylight felt reckless and exhilarating. Almost absurdly intimate.
You wandered through markets and narrow streets, past fishmongers and bakers, listening to laughter unfiltered by courtly restraint. You tasted food from stalls you would never have been permitted to approach before. You watched children chase one another through the dust and thought—briefly, dangerously—how different life might have been had you been born to less expectation.
Valarr entertained every whim with an ease that surprised you.
He followed when you tugged him down unfamiliar paths. He lingered when you stopped to listen to a storyteller. He let you lead, entirely unbothered by the loss of control.
It should not have surprised you. Not truly. When given the chance, Valarr was unpredictable—curious in quiet ways, willing to bend rules that others obeyed without question. It was as though, outside the walls of the Keep, he became lighter. More himself.
It was near a small square that the crowd thickened.
A ring of people had formed around a performance—some sort of acrobat or fire-juggler, judging by the sparks leaping briefly into the air. Laughter rippled outward. Coins clinked. Bodies pressed closer, drawn by spectacle and sound.
You stepped forward without thinking—and nearly lost him. Not fully—you don’t suppose he would ever let such a thing happen anyhow—but you’d lost sight of him enough that your stride faltered when the crowd surged and shifted, swallowing the space between you.
Before you could gather yourself, his hand found you.
His hold was firm and certain. Not gripping. Never that. It was just there—settling at your waist, fingers splayed lightly at your back as if it belonged, as if the world had always arranged itself so you would walk slightly ahead of him and he would guide you through it.
Your breath left you in a quiet, traitorous rush.
His thumb pressed once—an unconscious thing, surely—before his other hand joined the first, warm and steady, shielding you from the press of bodies and curious eyes alike.
“This way,” Valarr murmured, close enough that his breath stirred the loose hairs near your ear.
Your heart attempted a full escape from your chest. You nodded, said nothing, trusted him completely—and hated yourself just a little for how easily you did.
By the time you slipped free of the crowd, the city still clinging to your cloaks and dusk threatening the sky, something between you had shifted—unspoken, unnamed, and impossible to ignore.
II. THE SECOND TIME
YOU HAD been admonished for a particular wont for as long as you could remember.
You speak too much.
Ladies should listen more than they talk.
Silence is a virtue.
It was said gently at first, by septas who pressed fingers to their lips with indulgent smiles. Later, however, much more sharply by distant relations, by well-meaning women who spoke as though restraint were something one could simply learn the way one learned stitching.
It had always struck them as unexpected. Not merely because you were a respectable lady from an even more respectable house, but because no one quite knew where you had inherited it from. Your parents were measured people. Thoughtful and reserved individuals who spoke when necessary and not a word more.
You knew the truth, though.
Your house had never been short of maesters—and maesters, you had discovered early on, were remarkably susceptible to enthusiasm when given the right audience. You had been small, barely tall enough to peer over a desk, when you first realized that if you listened long enough, if you asked just the right question, they would forget themselves entirely.
They spoke to you of books, of histories, of wars and dynasties and mistakes carved so deeply into the realm that even centuries later they still bled through the page. Septas, too, had fallen prey to it—meant to instruct you in prayer or propriety, only to be gently led astray into stories of ancient queens, tragic lovers, and half-forgotten saints.
While other girls learned embroidery and song, you were allowed—spoiled, really—to bury yourself in shelves of vellum and dust. Fairy tales. Romances. And, most intoxicating of all, history.
You had been a sponge. A sponge with far too much to say. Which was how you found yourself here.
You were not meant to speak so much.
Not truly. Especially not as a lady whose father was currentlyin quiet negotiations with the Crown, whose future was being weighed and measured by men with ink-stained fingers.
And yet—here you were.
Talking.
About dragons.
“…people always speak of them as though they were symbols,” you were saying, hands unconsciously moving as you spoke. “Fire and blood and terror. But when you read the accounts—really read them—you see how often they hesitated. As though they understood something the people below did not.”
Valarr had not interrupted you once.
You spoke of the Dance and its bitter ironies, your voice lowering as though the walls themselves might be listening.
You spoke of how histories remembered the spectacle—the flames, the banners, the dragons tearing the sky apart—while softening the suffering beneath it. Of how entire bloodlines had been reduced to footnotes written in careful, distant hands, while the dragons were immortalized in song and sigil and myth.
As you spoke, you became dimly aware of everything else. You hear the quiet crackle of a nearby hearth, the distant echo of footsteps beyond the chamber, feel the weight of the chair beneath you. You observe the way Valarr had gone utterly still, as though any movement might break the fragile thing forming between your words.
“And then there’s her,” you continued, quieter now, more thoughtful than impassioned. “Rhaenyra Targaryen.”
Saying her name felt like placing something precious—and dangerous—on the table between you.
Valarr’s gaze sharpened. Not with offense or with the reflexive defensiveness you had braced for, what with a topic such as The Half-Year Queen. Instead, he honed in with an even more heightened interest.
“They call her cruel,” you said, fingers curling lightly in your lap. “Or mad. Or say the throne changed her. But every account contradicts the last. Some maesters who lived through it wrote that she was once warm. Quick to laugh. Protective to a fault.”
You let out a slow breath. “Others swear she was always iron beneath the silk. That the fire was already there long before the crown ever touched her head.”
You shook your head, faintly frustrated—not with him, but with the centuries of voices crowding your mind. “I think,” you said slowly, choosing the words with care, “that history is unkind to women who refuse to be simple.”
Silence followed. It’s not an awkward one, not the kind that begged to be filled. It was just space.
You realized then how long you had been speaking. How your thoughts had spilled unguarded, untrimmed, carried by the dangerous comfort of being listened to.
“Oh,” you said, faltering, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I’m sorry. I know it’s dull—”
“It isn’t.”
The interruption was gentle but absolute.
Valarr leaned forward, forearms braced on the table between you, as though drawn closer without quite meaning to be. His violet-brown eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch.
“They forget,” he said carefully, thoughtfully, “that the Dance was fought by people who both believed they were right.”
The words settled into you.
You swallowed. “Yes,” you breathed. “Exactly.”
Relief bloomed—quiet but profound. That rare, almost giddy relief of being understood without needing to argue your case.
He studied you for a moment longer, as if weighing not just your answer, but you. Then he asked, softer now, “Do you think Rhaenyra ever regretted it? Pressing her claim, I mean.”
You hesitated. Let yourself be honest.
“I think,” you said slowly, “she regretted trusting that victory would come without cost.”
Valarr nodded, slow and thoughtful, his gaze dropping briefly to the table before lifting again. “That sounds… familiar.”
The corner of your mouth curved before you could stop it. A soft, surprised laugh escaped you—warm, unguarded.
“And the dragons?” he prompted gently. “The one you mentioned earlier. The one that refused to burn.”
Your heart stuttered. Astonished at the idea that he even remembered such a detail from your ramblings, and that, most of all, he wanted to hear more.
“That story,” you said, warmth blooming in your chest, “was written by a maester who swore the dragon circled the battlefield three times. As though weighing judgment. As though it saw no righteousness worth fire.”
You could still picture it—the image etched into your mind from the page. Wings blotting out the sun. Soldiers frozen in fear and awe.
Valarr’s gaze never left yours.
“What do you think it saw?” he asked.
The question was not idle or rhetorical. You stared at him, struck by the care in his voice, by the way he waited as though the answer mattered. He wasn’t indulging you. He wasn’t humoring you. He was simply listening— listening in that rare, dangerous way that made you feel suddenly, terrifyingly seen.
Your chest tightened. Warm. Bright. Alive. “I think,” you said softly, “it saw that war is never as glorious from above.”
Something flickered across his expression then—respect, perhaps. Or recognition. He smiled. Just enough to feel like something shared.
Something in you shifted. Something quiet, irrevocable. And for the first time in your life, you wondered if perhaps speaking too much had never been a flaw at all.
III. THE THIRD TIME
THERE HAD always been reasons—many of them—for why your wants and whims were so often indulged.
Some were practical. Some political. Most of it unspoken. But the truest one had been whispered to you only once, late at night, when you were old enough to understand fear in your parents’ voices.
You had been an only child for a long while, long enough that solitude had shaped you, long enough that silence became familiar rather than frightening. Your birth, you learned, had not been an easy one. Your mother’s labor had been grueling, stretching hours into something perilously close to tragedy.
There had been a moment—your father confessed quietly—when he had been made to choose between hope and certainty, between faith and loss. Your mother survived, by the grace of the Gods or sheer stubborn will, but the memory of it lodged itself into your father’s heart like a splinter.
For years afterward, he could not bring himself to risk it again.
You adored that story when you first heard it. Adored it fiercely. It felt like proof—indisputable, tender proof—that your parents’ marriage had been built on devotion rather than convenience. It felt like confirmation that love had outweighed legacy, at least for a time.
And yet… it complicated things.
You had grown used to being alone. You had become used to having the full measure of their attention, their patience, their indulgence, to long hours spent in libraries and solar rooms, to quiet meals, to the world shaped around just you. So when your parents told you—tentatively, carefully—that your mother was with child again, excitement had flared bright and immediate. You imagined a companion. Someone closer to you in age. Someone who might finally understand you.
Reality, as it often did, arrived differently.
The children came one after the other, years apart from you and close to one another. Eight years between you and the second-born. And then—when you were already halfway to adulthood—three more, clustered together as though the gods themselves were making up for lost time.
You did not know how to bond with them at first. Your interests did not align. You did not know how to play properly, how to speak in half-formed stories and exaggerated wonder. You had books and thoughts too large for small hands.
But what you lacked in shared understanding, you made up for in gentleness.
You were tender and patient. Doting in the way only someone who had once been doted upon could be. You spoiled them shamelessly—sweets, toys, attention, praise—until they adored you with an intensity that sometimes startled even your parents. They followed you everywhere, clung to your skirts, and even sought your approval before anyone else’s.
Your parents could only shake their heads in affectionate disbelief.
When you left home—duty calling you away beneath banners and expectation—they had been nearly inconsolable. Fingers fisted in your gown. Voices pleading for you to stay. Or better yet, to take them with you. You had still gone anyway, with a heart heavy enough to ache.
Your mother wrote often after that. Letters filled with updates you read and reread until the parchment softened at the folds. You could not return home. Not now. Not while you resided in the Red Keep under the watchful eye of the Crown.
So when, after a few moons, word came that your mother would be visiting—with the children in tow—it felt almost unreal.
The children arrived without warning. One moment you were mid-conversation, the next you heard the unmistakable rush of footsteps—too fast, too unguarded for court—and then someone shouted your name with such unrestrained joy that your heart leapt before your mind caught up.
You barely had time to turn before your younger siblings spotted you. And then they were on you.
You knelt without thinking, skirts forgotten, arms immediately full of laughter, of frantic embraces, of small hands clutching at your sleeves as though you might vanish again if they loosened their grip. Your cheeks were pressed clumsily with kisses, one of them buried their face against your shoulder as another chattered at full speed, words tumbling over themselves in excitement.
“You took forever!”
“You look different!”
“Did you see the dragon skulls?”
“I missed you the most!”
“I missed you,” you laughed, voice already thick. “All of you—slow down, sweetlings, slow down—”
But they would not be slowed. Not yet. You smoothed hair from flushed faces, pressed kisses to brows, held them tighter than propriety allowed. The Keep, the court, the expectations—all of it faded beneath the sheer, uncomplicated joy of them.
You were dimly aware, then, of Valarr.
He stood back near the archway leading to the Godswood were you had been at first, hands folded loosely behind him, watching you interact with your siblings with something like quiet wonder. He had heard so much about them from you—stories offered fondly, almost reverently—that meeting them had become something he anticipated with surprising eagerness.
But first, he stepped forward to greet your mother.
He bowed, properly and gallantly, every inch the prince he was meant to be. “My lady,” he said warmly. “You honor us with your visit.”
Your mother inclined her head, already smiling in that knowing way that made you suddenly very aware of yourself. “The honor is entirely ours, Your Highness.”
Only then did he turn his attention to the children.
One of them—boldest, sharpest-eyed of the three—tugged at his sleeve.
“Are you the prince?” the child asked, voice pitched somewhere between awe and accusation.
He had crouched immediately, bringing himself level with them. No rush. No condescension. “I am,” he said gently. “But you may call me Valarr, if you wish.”
The child’s eyes narrowed. “You’re why she hasn’t come home.”
Your heart squeezed. You opened your mouth—half to scold, half to apologize—but Valarr only laughed softly. He pressed a hand to his chest in exaggerated solemnity.
“A grave charge,” he said. “One I fear is entirely true.”
The children leaned closer, suspicious.
“I am very sorry,” Valarr continued. “How may I make it up to you?”
From his other hand, it’s not long before he produced a small bag—carefully wrapped, unmistakable. Sweets.
The betrayal was instant.
“Well,” one of them said thoughtfully, accepting it, “I suppose you may keep her.”
“Excuse me?” you gasped, mock-offended. “I am not something to be kept.”
“But,” the child added, pointing a sticky finger at Valarr, “only if you give us more.”
Valarr grinned—boyish and bright. “More can be arranged.”
“How much more?” another asked shrewdly.
“Mountains,” he declared. “Entire hills of sweets, if that is the price of keeping your dear sister at my side.”
Your chest did something treacherous then—softened, warmed, unraveled. You covered it with a scoff. “You’re bribing them.”
“Negotiating,” he corrected lightly. “They are quite formidable.”
The children agreed enthusiastically.
Soon enough, Valarr had coaxed them closer toward the weirwood tree. He took to their toys, listened to their rules—however contradictory they sometimes were—and let them chase him through dappled sunlight. He pretended to lose, let them catch him, and even lifted one onto his shoulders amid peals of laughter.
When one grew tired, he picked them up without hesitation, settling the child against his shoulder as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Your chest ached. Not painfully. Sweetly. Dangerously. You could see it then, unbidden: a future not yet promised. A home. A hearth. Valarr with children who shared his eyes and his gentleness.
You had to look away before the thought overwhelmed you.
You sat beside your mother, watching. There was no need for many words. After a long moment, she spoke quietly. “The gods have heard my prayers.”
You turned to her. “What did you pray for?”
She smiled that soft, knowing smile only mothers could wear, full of a love that had always known your heart better than you did. “That my darling girl would have nothing less than a princely man.” She gestured lightly. “And look where you are.”
You followed her gaze. Valarr—laughing, breathless, surrounded by your siblings. And you smiled.
IV. THE ONE TIME YOU UNDID HIM
BY THE time the gardens bloomed into their full summer colors, your siblings were already gone.
They had spent a fortnight in King’s Landing—long enough, you thought, to grow homesick, to cling to you and your father when the time came to leave. You had prepared yourself for tears, for stubborn refusals, for promises whispered through carriage windows.
Instead, they had clung to him.
As you had expected—though perhaps not hoped—your younger siblings were adamant in their refusal to depart. Not because they wished to remain with you or even your father, but because they had grown fiercely, shamelessly fond of the ever-courteous Prince Valarr Targaryen.
Valarr, who had fed them candied figs until your mother had no choice but to scold him off. Valarr, who had produced carved wooden dragons and silk-wrapped sweets of such exquisite make that even you had paused in admiration. Valarr, who had listened to their rambling tales with the same attentiveness he gave lords thrice their age.
When the carriage finally rolled away that morning, you had watched your siblings press their faces to the window—waving with one hand, clutching their treasures with the other. You suspected they would forgive you eventually.
The gardens were quiet that afternoon, washed in green and gold beneath the sun. Birds darted through the hedges as, somewhere, water murmured patiently against stone. You walked beside Valarr, your pace unhurried, though your thoughts were anything but.
“I still cannot believe it,” you said at last, breaking the calm. “I raise them. I endure their tempers. I teach them their letters. And in a fortnight, you supplant me.”
He smiled, already unrepentant. “I merely showed them hospitality.”
“You bribed them.”
“Spoiled them,” he corrected lightly. “There is a difference.”
You stopped.
Valarr took one more step before realizing you were no longer beside him. He turned, brows knitting. “What is the matter—”
“Pardon me.”
You reached for him as if the reason were obvious.
First, you brushed a stray leaf from his shoulder—an intimate, absentminded gesture that brought you closer than before. Valarr’s breath hitched, the sound quiet but unmistakable. Then you adjusted his collar, fingertips lingering just long enough to feel the warmth beneath the fabric, just close enough to steal a glance at the flush blooming across his cheeks and the tips of his ears.
You stepped past him then, resuming your stroll as though nothing had happened.
“You bought their loyalty with sugar and trinkets,” you continued calmly.
“And you,” he said, falling back into step, his voice carefully steady, “had years’ advantage. Hardly a fair contest.”
“None of that. Did you know they used to swear I was their most favorite person in the world?”
“They still adore you,” Valarr replied. “I am merely… novel.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“I would never admit such a thing,” he said, shrugging with practiced innocence.
You shared a small pastry as you walked, breaking it neatly between you. When a smudge of frosting dusted his upper lip, you laughed before you could stop yourself.
“You have frosting there,” you said.
“Where?”
“Stay still.”
You reached up. This time, there was no pretense. No leaf or collar to fix. Without thinking—without planning—you wiped the frosting from his top lip with your thumb.
Valarr stilled entirely.
His breath caught as though the air had been stolen from him. His eyes darkened, widening just a fraction as the world seemed to tilt off its careful axis. The space between you tightened, alive and charged, humming with something neither of you had dared acknowledge before.
“Disgusting,” drawled a voice from behind you, smooth with contempt and perfectly timed to sour the moment. “Public displays already? How eager you both seem.”
You turned slowly.
Of course.
Aerion Targaryen stood a few paces away, cropped silver hair catching the sun like a blade meant to be admired, his expression twisted into something between amusement and disdain. He looked as though he had been summoned by ill intent alone, the way storms gather without invitation.
You had heard the stories. Everyone had. Whispers of cruelty dressed up as bravado, of temper mistaken for strength. You had even met his father—Prince Maekar—whose reserve had been stern but controlled, whose civility had made you wonder how such a man could have raised a son so eager to burn everything he touched.
Still, you smiled. Not sweetly. Not timidly. But pleasantly—measured and serene, the smile of someone who understood exactly where she stood. After all, he was still royal blood. Aerion Brightflame was still kin to the man standing just a breath away from you. And you had not been raised to mistake provocation for power.
“Prince Aerion,” you said, inclining your head just enough to satisfy courtesy. “How… observant of you.”
His lip curled, shooting Valarr a taunting leer. “Really, cousin, one would think decorum still mattered at court.”
“Does it?” you asked lightly, bringing the prince’s attention to you. “I had been under the impression it applied chiefly to matters of consequence.”
A faint flicker crossed his eyes—annoyance, quickly masked. Valarr remained silent beside you. He didn’t move. He didn’t intervene. He merely watched.
Aerion laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Careful. Familiarity breeds assumptions. Some might think you forget yourself.”
“Indeed,” you agreed smoothly. “And assumptions, I find, often reveal more about the observer than the observed.”
His gaze slid over you then, slower, more deliberate. Almost as if he were… appraising you for the first time. You did your best not to be outward when a shiver of discomfort coursed throughout your body.
“You are wasted on restraint,” he said. “A lady such as you ought to aim higher. You need a larger dragon.”
The words were deliberate. Calculated. It was a poorly concealed challenge, a pass. A threat dressed as invitation. You did not bristle now hearing it. Instead, you regarded him with open curiosity, as though considering a lecture poorly delivered.
“How curious,” you said. “I was taught that the size of a dragon matters far less than the steadiness of the one who rides it.”
The air shifted.
Aerion’s smile thinned. He stepped closer, eyes sharp now. “Bold words. You deign to presume as much?”
“I am attentive, my prince,” you replied calmly. “History has taught me the difference. The Dance, in such a case, taught us all what happens when dragons are ruled by appetite rather than wisdom.”
Around you, the garden seemed to hold its breath. Aerion searched your face—for offense, for fear, for even the slightest crack he might pry open. He found none. Only composure. Only quiet certainty.
With an irritated huff, he straightened, pride smarting beneath the silk and steel of his bearing. “Enjoy your fantasies,” he snapped, before regarding Valarr finally with a soured expression. “Cousin.”
He left in a swirl of anger and wounded vanity, turning on his heel, fury coloring every step of his retreat.
Only then did you exhale. Your shoulders eased. The tension slipped free, leaving behind a faint, almost incredulous calm.
“Truly,” you muttered. “How does one endure such family?”
Valarr turned to you then. He stood before you not as a prince, not as a consideration weighed by fathers and councils, but as a man entirely undone.
For a heartbeat, he only looked at you. As though committing the moment to memory. As though giving himself one last chance to turn away.
He did not take it.
His hands came up to your face with reverence that startled you. His touch is made of warm palms, steady fingers, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as if he feared you might vanish if he did not anchor you there. And then he kissed you.
It was not rushed, not careless.
The kiss landed with the force of restraint that was finally shattering. It carried the weight of every glance you held too long, every step that was measured when instinct had begged him to close the distance, every conversation which ended too soon because eyes were watching.
Your breath caught sharply, stolen by the sudden closeness, by the certainty of him. His mouth was warm and insistent, fitting to yours as though it had been waiting—learning—the shape of you long before this moment. Gods, you could feel it everywhere. You feel it in the way your chest tightened, in the way your knees threatened to soften, in the way your fingers curled instinctively into his cloak as though you might fall if you did not hold on.
For a fleeting, dizzying second, you forgot the garden. From your mind, the court, the world, just faded to obscurity.
There, in that garden, was only him.
When he finally pulled back, it was not far—just enough for breath, for sanity. His forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven against your skin, his hands still cradling your face as though letting go were impossible.
You stared at him, stunned, your thoughts scattering like startled birds.
“Valarr—” you began, unsure whether you meant what are you doing or what is happening or how long have we been circling this.
He shook his head once, lips curved in something bright and unrepentant. And kissed you again.
This time, the kiss was different. It’s still passionate—Gods, did he know how to kiss a lady nearly witless—but steadier now, infinitely sure.
It was slower, deeper, carried by the quiet confidence of someone who had already chosen and would not be swayed. His mouth moved against yours with intent rather than desperation, as if to say this is real—as if to anchor you both in it.
When you parted again, you laughed softly despite yourself, breathless and incredulous.
“I—” you started, then faltered. “I have wanted to do that for an unreasonable amount of time.”
His eyes lit with pure, delighted amusement.“Have you?” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours.
Before you could answer, he pressed a quick kiss to your lips—then another to your cheek, your temple, the corner of your mouth. Each one lighter, playful, unbearably tender.
“I had suspected,” he said, kissing you again. “Your aim was… admirable.”
You swatted weakly at his chest, laughing now in earnest. “You are insufferable.”
“And you,” he said fondly, pressing one last, lingering kiss to your forehead, “are entirely dangerous.”
Then he grew still. The humor faded—not into doubt, but into resolve. “I no longer care,” Valarr said softly. “About approvals. Or negotiations. Or what our fathers decide.”
Your heart thundered, loud as wings.
“I will ask to marry you, my lady,” he continued, voice steady, unflinching. “Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs.”
And then, his mouth curves into something warm, something utterly sure. “I should like to see you admonish my cruel cousin more oft, my love.”
As he pressed another kiss to your lips, history, watching from the shadows, smiled thinly. Now, it had already begun to write you into its pages.
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