Pairing: Modern Valarr Targaryen x female OC, Modern Aerion Targaryen x female OC
Word Count: 12.3k
Warnings: none.
Summary: friends to lovers. Serena tells herself it's fine; that Aerion will change, that this is what love is supposed to look like. Valarr is determined to prove her wrong, he's just never meant to fall in love with her while doing so.
Previous chapter can be found here
_____
Serenas POV
For nearly ten minutes after I hit send, the screen stays silent.
The message lingers beneath that tiny grey Delivered, and I keep staring at it like I could somehow drag the words back through the glass if I concentrate hard enough. My heart slams against my ribs so violently that it drowns out everything else. Isla hasn’t spoken. She simply sits with me, offering the kind of quiet that feels like mercy.
Then the phone starts to vibrate.
Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.
Aerion’s name lights up the screen and my stomach plummets, making me feel sick immediately. I don’t answer. I CAN’T answer.
The ringing dies and another call immediately replaces it. Then another. By the fourth attempt the vibrations have become almost continuous against my thigh.
“I don’t think you should answer,” Isla says softly.
“I know.”
The words have barely left my mouth when the calls stop. For one stupid, hopeful second I think that might be the end of it. Maybe he’s breathing. Maybe he’s calming down.
Then the messages arrive. They flood in so fast that each new notification shoves the last one higher up the screen before I can finish reading it.
What the fuck is this?
Are you serious?
Pick up your fucking phone.
You’re actually unbelievable.
After everything I’ve done for you?
Answer me.
Or are you too much of a coward?
You don’t get to do this over text.
You owe me a conversation.
My throat tightens. For a single heartbeat the old reflex flickers.. apologise, explain, make it easier for him. Then the next message lands and the impulse dies.
Pack your shit.
I want everything gone before I get back.
If you’re still in my apartment when I land, I’ll have you removed.
Removed. The word sits there, cold and clinical, like I’m nothing more than an inconvenience that needs to be dealt with. Another vibration follows.
Don’t touch anything that’s mine.
You can leave the keys on the kitchen counter.
Actually, don’t. I’ll change the locks anyway.
Something inside me goes very still and Isla must have noticed the blood draining from my face as she stands up. “Let me see.”
I hand her the phone. She reads in silence, her jaw tightening with every line.
“He cannot be serious.”
I don’t answer her because of course he is. It’s Aerion after all.
She scrolls further, then stops.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What?”
She turns the screen toward me.
Don’t even think about taking the TV. I paid for it.
A small, broken sound escapes me. It isn’t quite a laugh. Actually he only paid around fifty bucks more than me when we bought it together.
“He thinks I’m worried about the television.”
My voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else.
Another message appears.
You know what? Forget it.
Just get the fuck out.
You’re a selfish bitch.
The word hits harder than it should. Not because I’ve never heard it before, but because it’s coming from him. Because some ridiculous part of me had still been waiting for sadness, or at least something that resembled grief.
Instead I get this.
I sink back onto the sofa. My legs don’t feel steady anymore as the phone keeps vibrating. Message after message piles up until the words start to blur into one long smear of contempt.
Coward.
Pathetic.
Ungrateful bitch.
Waste of my fucking time.
Each insult lands with less force than the last, not because they stop hurting, but because they’ve become predictable. The same anger wearing different clothes.
You were never going to do better than me.
The apartment goes silent. I stare at those eight words for a long time and without warning, I think of Valarr.
Of waking up beside him this morning. Of the way he looked at me like simply finding me there had been enough. Of the quiet way he’d asked, How do you feel? Not because he wanted a particular answer, but because he genuinely wanted to know.
My chest tightens.
Aerion’s first concern is what I’ve done to him.
Valarr’s first concern is how I’m doing.
The difference between those two things suddenly feels enormous. So enormous that I don’t know how I spent one year pretending it wasn’t there. Another vibration but I don’t look.
“I’m not going back there today,” I whisper.
Isla sits beside me. “No.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I have nowhere to put my things.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“My clothes are there, my- everything. My whole life.”
She reaches over and takes my hand.
“We’ll figure that out too.”
The phone vibrates again and without looking, I hold the power button until the screen goes black.
The silence that follows feels unfamiliar. Like I’ve finally closed a door that should have been shut a very long time ago and for the first time since I pressed send, I let myself cry.
_____
“I’ll come with you.”
The offer slips from Isla before I’ve even finished tying my laces.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” She folds her arms. “I’m coming anyway.”
A small, reluctant smile pulls at my mouth. “I appreciate it.”
“But?”
“But I think I need to do this alone.”
Her expression softens. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “If I don’t go in there by myself now, I’ll just keep putting it off. I need to walk in and walk back out again without anyone holding my hand.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then she exhales.“If he comes back early—”
“He won’t.”
“If he calls—”
“I won’t answer.”
“If anything feels wrong—”
“I’ll leave.”
She sighs. “I hate this.” She crosses the room and pulls me into a hug without another word. I hold on longer than I mean to. Then I step back, pick up my bag, and go.
_____
It feels almost insulting, how ordinary everything still is. The key lock clicks the way it always has. I stand in the hallway for a second, taking a deep breath as I close the door behind me.
His trainers are still where he kicked them off. My coat still hangs beside his jacket. In the bathroom, two toothbrushes stand together in the holder like nothing’s wrong. I don’t know why that hurts more than anything else. Such an ordinary thing. Such a small, stupid symbol of a life we shared.
I start in the bedroom. The suitcase comes out from under the bed, the same one we used for spring holiday. I pause, just for a second, then keep moving. Clothes first. Easy. Jeans, jumpers, T-shirts, underwear. My hands know the motions even if my mind has gone somewhere else. I don’t touch his side of the wardrobe. Not once.
When the drawers are empty, I move to the bedside table. Phone charger. Hair ties. The novel I never finished. Lip balm. The framed photograph beside the lamp. Us. Last summer at the beach. I’m smiling so hard my eyes have nearly disappeared. He’s kissing the top of my head. Anyone looking at it would think we were happy.
I study it for a long moment, then I place it face down in the drawer. I don’t take it, but don’t throw it away either. Some things belong to a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore.
The kitchen takes less than five minutes. A few mugs. The saucepan my mum bought me when I first moved out. My favourite cereal bowl. Half the cupboards stay untouched. The kettle stays. The toaster stays. The television. The sofa. Almost everything stays. Like I’m erasing myself without disturbing the shape of the place.
By the time I reach the bathroom again, both suitcases are full. There isn’t much left. A bottle of perfume and half-used moisturiser. The little plant I insisted we buy because the windowsill looked bare. I look at it and leave it. It won’t fit in Isla’s flat anyway. Maybe it’ll survive. Maybe it won’t.
I zip both suitcases shut. The sound feels final in a way nothing else has.
I straighten and my eyes drift across the bedroom one last time. His pillow sits beside what used to be mine. Sunlight spills across the duvet like it did yesterday morning. Like it did every morning before this one. Only now the room isn’t mine anymore. The realisation hits so suddenly it knocks the breath from my lungs.
A whole year of falling asleep beside each other and building something I genuinely thought would last. I sink onto the edge of the bed before I can stop myself and the tears come quietly. A slow, steady stream I don’t bother wiping away.
“I really tried,” I whisper into the empty room. “I really did.”
For so long I’d believed that if I just loved him better, understood him more, expected less, we’d eventually become the couple I thought we were at the beginning. I don’t know when I stopped believing that. I only know that somewhere along the way, trying became exhausting. And then… I think about waking up in Valarr’s arms. About the way he asked how I was feeling before he asked anything else. About the gentleness in his face, like simply being allowed to see me there had been enough.
The comparison stings because it shouldn’t feel so different. But it does.
I wipe my face with my sleeve, stand and pick up both suitcases.
At the front door, I stop one last time. The key sits cold in my palm. I place it carefully on the little table by the entrance. Exactly where he told me to leave it. Then I walk out. The lock clicks softly behind me and I don’t look back.
____
By the time I reach the street, my arms ache from dragging the suitcases behind me.
I stop for a moment on the pavement. The air feels thin after the stale quiet of the apartment.
My phone vibrates in the pocket of my jeans and somehow I convince myself to look.
My heart twists immediately.
Valarr: Hi. I know you’ve got a lot going on today. You don’t have to reply if you don’t want to. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.
I stare at the screen. My thumb hovers above it without moving as the tears threaten again. Not because he’s asking anything from me. Because he isn’t. Because even now, when every part of me knows he wants to see me, wants to hold me, wants to know what’s happening, he isn’t asking for that. He’s only asking if I’m alright. I rest my thumb over the keyboard.
Eventually I lock the phone without answering. Not because I don’t want to. Because I don’t know how.
Right now there are simply too many feelings inside me to fit into a text message.
I pull the suitcase behind me and start walking again.
_____
Valarrs POV
The bout should have been over three points ago. Instead I miss another parry, the motion arriving late and clumsy, and Theo’s blade taps cleanly against my chest.
“Five,” he says.
The scoring machine flashes green. I lower my foil. Across the piste Theo lifts his mask. His face holds that expression again, the one hovering between confusion and concern.
“You alright?”
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t believe me. Neither does Coach, standing at the edge of the strip with his arms crossed and his mouth set in a line that means he’s already decided something.
“Again,” Coach calls.
I reset my stance. The next exchange lasts four seconds at most. I attack too early, overextend, and Theo sidesteps without effort. Another light. Another point.
Coach blows his whistle. “Stop.”
I straighten slowly. He walks onto the piste, and the sound of his shoes on the rubber seems louder than it should.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
He folds his arms tighter. “You’re not seeing distance and you’re chasing touches.”
“I know.”
He studies me for another moment, then sighs through his nose. “Go home.”
I blink. “What?”
“Whatever’s happening in your head, you’re not fixing it in here.”
“I can finish training.”
“No, you can’t.” His voice isn’t unkind. It’s simply factual, the way he states the obvious when he’s already made up his mind.
“You’ve spent the last ninety minutes fencing people who are considerably worse than you, and you’ve lost six bouts.”
That is unfortunately true.
I nod once. “See you Thursday.”
He claps me lightly on the shoulder as he walks away. “Sort your head out.”
I wish it were that simple. I strip off my jacket and sit on the bench at the edge of the salle. The fencing bag slumps beside me, half-unzipped. My phone is in the side pocket where I left it. I don’t reach for it. I know what I’ll find if I do. Messages I haven’t answered. Concern I don’t know how to meet. A kind of gentleness that makes the rest of my life feel louder by comparison. Theo is already resetting for the next bout. The scoring machine beeps as someone tests their blade. The familiar rhythm of practice continues without me.
I press the heel of my hand against my forehead and close my eyes. The image that surfaces is not of the piste or the points I’ve lost. It’s Serena, the way it has always been her.
____
The changing room empties around me.
Normally I’m one of the last to leave. I like the quiet after everyone else has gone, the way the space settles into itself. Today I’m dressed before almost anyone else. I keep my head down while I pack my bag, and no one tries to talk to me. They’ve learned not to.
My bag lands in the passenger seat as I unlock the car. The familiar smell of leather greets me as I slide behind the steering wheel. For a long moment, I don’t start the engine. I just sit there, hands resting on the wheel, staring through the windscreen at absolutely nothing.
My fencing has been dreadful all week. Not catastrophic. Just wrong. Everything is half a second behind. Every decision arrives fractionally too late. Every movement feels disconnected from the one before it. It’s like trying to fence through water. I know exactly why, I just don’t know what to do about it.
My phone lies face down beside the gearstick. I don’t need to turn it over. I already know there isn’t a message. Three days. Three days since I last saw her. Three days since my last unanswered text. Not because she’d ignored it, but because she’d never opened it. At least, I don’t think she had. The little word beneath the message had remained stubbornly unchanged. Delivered.
I tell myself that’s better. It probably means she’s overwhelmed. Busy. A thousand explanations exist. Most of them are kinder than the one my brain insists on returning to. Maybe I did something wrong. The thought slips in so quietly that I barely notice it. I lean my forehead against the steering wheel. No. I know better. Or at least I should. She asked for nothing. She promised nothing. She had just ended a relationship that had occupied a year of her life. Of course she needs time. That isn’t unreasonable. The unreasonable part is the increasingly persistent voice asking whether she’d woken up the morning after, looked back on everything that happened between us, and realised she’d made a terrible mistake. I laugh quietly to myself. It’s not a particularly amused sound. “You are an idiot.”
The empty car offers no disagreement.
I replay the last morning in my head for what must be the hundredth time. The embarrassment after Matarys walked in. The quiet afterwards. The way she’d looked at me when I’d asked how she was feeling. She hadn’t looked regretful. Overwhelmed, yes. Scared. Confused. Heartbroken, in a way. But not regretful. She kissed me before she left. People who regret you don’t usually do that. The thought helps for approximately fifteen seconds. Then another one arrives. Maybe she kissed me because she felt guilty.
I close my eyes. This is exhausting. I’ve been waiting for two years, so waiting isn’t difficult. Waiting without knowing whether the person you’re waiting for still wants you, that’s different.
I reach for my phone and open our conversation. Read the last message I’d sent. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I could send another one. Something simple. No pressure. Just thinking of you. Hope you’re alright. Call me if you need anything.
Three seconds pass and I lock the phone again. No. Enough. If she needs space, then space is what she gets. The whole point of loving someone is that sometimes what they need isn’t the same thing as what you want.
Right now, what I want is to hear her voice. To know she’s eating. To know she’s sleeping. To know Aerion hasn’t made this harder than it already was. To know she isn’t sitting somewhere thinking she’s alone in all of this. What she might need is silence.
The distinction matters. Even if it feels awful. I finally start the engine. The familiar hum fills the car. I pull out of the car park and halfway to the first traffic light, my phone buzzes. My heart leaps before I can stop it. I glance down. Not Serena.
Matarys: still alive?
Despite myself, I smile. I dictate a reply through the hands-free system. “Barely.”
His answer arrives before the light turns green.
Matarys: dad wants takeaway
Matarys: also stop staring at your phone every ten seconds
I frown. How-
Matarys: your location says you’ve been sitting in the fencing car park for 18 minutes
I let out a long sigh. Of course. I’d completely forgotten we’d started sharing our locations after Matarys locked himself out of the house for the third time. I shake my head and type back properly.
I’m coming home.
His reply appears almost instantly.
Matarys: good
Matarys: she’ll text when she’s ready
I stare at those five words until the traffic light turns green. Then I put the phone face down on the passenger seat. “I know,” I say quietly to the empty car. “I know.”
____
Serena’s POV
By the fourth day, everything begins to blur together. I sleep in fragments rather than nights. An hour on Isla’s sofa, then awake again without knowing why, neck stiff from the angle, mouth dry, staring at the ceiling until the sky outside the window starts to pale. Food has become something I understand only in theory. Isla sets a plate in front of me and I manage two or three bites before swallowing starts to feel impossible.
She doesn’t push. She asks once.
“Can you try a little more?”
I nod every time. I rarely do.
The past week feels less like a sequence of days and more like surviving one very long one. Breaking up with Aerion. His messages. Packing my life into two suitcases. Leaving the apartment. Calling in sick to work. Sleeping on Isla’s sofa. Trying not to think too far ahead because every time I do, the future tightens in my chest until I can’t breathe.
I need to go back to work. Rent doesn’t stop existing because your life falls apart. Neither do bills. Neither does reality. I’ve already used almost all the money I had saved, and staying with Isla indefinitely isn’t an option, no matter how many times she insists that it is.
“I mean it,” she’d said yesterday while we were folding laundry. “You’re not a burden.”
I knew she meant it. That doesn’t stop me from feeling like one.
—
The flat is quiet this afternoon. Isla sits at the kitchen table with headphones on, typing steadily, while I curl beneath a blanket on the sofa despite the warm weather outside, half-reading the same page of a book for the tenth time. I couldn’t tell you what it’s about.
My phone hasn’t made a sound all morning. Aerion can’t. I blocked his number two days ago after waking to another fourteen messages, ranging from selfish bitch to I hope you’re happy ruining people’s lives. Blocking him had felt strangely anticlimactic. Not satisfying. Just necessary. There comes a point where protecting yourself stops being dramatic and starts being practical.
A knock sounds at the front door. Isla pulls one earphone aside.
“You expecting someone?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She gets up anyway. I hear the lock turn. The hinges creak softly.
“Oh.” Something about the way she says it makes me look up. I still can’t see the doorway from where I’m sitting.
“Hi,” a familiar voice says quietly. My heart stops. Valarr. I don’t move.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he says, sounding almost apologetic. “I just… I was wondering if Serena was here.”
A small pause.
“I went to the apartment first.”
Something tightens painfully in my chest.
“She wasn’t there.”
Another pause.
“She hasn’t answered any of my messages.”
His voice is calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that only exists because he is trying very hard not to sound worried.
“I just…” He exhales quietly. “I wanted to make sure she’s alright.”
I close my eyes. God. He’d gone to the apartment. He’d been looking for me.
“I don’t really know if it’s my place,” Isla says carefully.
“I understand,” he replies immediately. “I know she probably needs space. I just…” Another small pause. “I haven’t heard from her in days.”
I can’t do this. I can’t keep letting him worry.
I push the blanket aside and stand. My legs feel strangely heavy as I walk toward the hallway. Isla looks up first, then Valarr does.
The moment his eyes find me, something changes in his face so quickly that I almost miss it. His shoulders drop almost imperceptibly, like he’d been holding himself tense for days without realizing it.
“Hey,” I say quietly. For a second, he just looks at me. I know what he sees. Hair tied into a messy knot. One of Isla’s oversized jumpers hanging off one shoulder. Dark circles beneath my eyes. A face that has cried far too much over the last week.
“You found her,” Isla says gently, breaking the silence before it becomes uncomfortable.
He nods once. “I did.”
She looks between the two of us. Then, with the kind of emotional intelligence that makes me love her even more, she clears her throat. “I’m suddenly remembering I promised the neighbour I’d help her carry some boxes downstairs.”
I blink. “You did?”
“No,” she says cheerfully. “But I’m going to.”
She picks up her keys and looks at Valarr. “If you’re still here in five minutes, I’ll assume you’re behaving.”
His ears turn slightly pink. “I am always behaving.”
She snorts. “Sure.” Then she disappears into the hallway.
Silence settles over the flat. Valarr stays exactly where he is, one hand still resting against the doorframe, like he isn’t entirely sure whether he’s welcome any further inside.
“You look…” he begins. He stops. Tries again. “You don’t look okay.”
“I’m okay.”
“No,” he says quietly. “You aren’t.”
I look away. “I’ve just been tired.”
He studies me for another long moment. Then, very gently, he asks, “Have you eaten?”
The question catches me off guard.“What?”
“Today.”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Serena.”
“I had…” I try to remember. “Toast.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“It’s four o’clock.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
His jaw tightens. “What about yesterday?”
“I think…” I pause. “Bread.”
The silence that follows is somehow worse than if he’d argued with me. He simply looks at me. Not disappointed. Not annoyed. Just quietly heartbroken.
“I’ve really been trying not to bother you,” he says after a while.
“I know.”
“I thought maybe you just needed time.”
“I did.”
“I know.” He smiles faintly. “I still think you do.” His eyes meet mine again. “But needing time doesn’t mean you stop eating.”
I let out a tired laugh. “I’m not very good company right now.”
“I don’t particularly care.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He shifts his weight slightly. “Come with me.”
I frown. “Where?”
“Food.”
“I’m really not—”
“You don’t have to eat much.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I think I do.” His voice remains impossibly gentle. “I think everything feels too heavy right now, and eating probably feels pointless, and getting dressed probably feels pointless, and tomorrow feels impossible because next week feels impossible.”
I stare at him. Because… yes. Exactly that.
“I can’t fix any of it,” he continues quietly. “I know. But I can buy you dinner.”
My eyes sting unexpectedly. “Valarr…”
“You don’t even have to talk.” He gives the smallest smile. “We can sit there in complete silence if that’s what you want.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think I can.”
“Can’t what?”
“Go out… I look awful.”
“I genuinely couldn’t care less.”
“I’ll probably cry.”
“Then cry.” His answer is so immediate that I actually laugh. A small one. Barely more than an exhale. “We’ll go somewhere quiet.”
“I don’t…” I stop. Because I’m running out of excuses. He isn’t asking anything difficult. He’s asking me to eat. To leave the flat for one hour. To remember that the world still exists outside the four walls I’ve been hiding inside all week. “I don’t want to make you responsible for me,” I whisper.
His expression softens. “You aren’t.” A pause. “I’m worried about you.”
The honesty of it settles somewhere deep inside me. No pressure. No expectations. Just… I’m worried about you.
My eyes drop to the floor and I nod once. “…Okay.”
The relief that crosses his face is so brief most people wouldn’t notice it. I do.
“I’ll wait while you get ready,” he says.
I glance down at Isla’s oversized jumper. “I should probably look like a person first.”
“I already think you do.”
I look back at him. He isn’t flirting. He isn’t trying to make me feel better. He’s simply telling me what he believes. For reasons I can’t entirely explain, that almost makes me cry again.
“I’ll need a few minutes,” I say.
“I’ll be here.”
_____
By the time I’m ready, I’ve managed little more than brushing my hair and changing into clean clothes, although calling either accomplishment particularly impressive feels generous. My jeans hang looser than they did a week ago, my sweatshirt sleeves cover half my hands, and no amount of cold water seems capable of disguising the exhaustion settled beneath my eyes.
Valarr doesn’t comment on any of it.
He only opens the passenger door for me, waits until I’ve climbed inside, and closes it again with the same quiet care he seems to bring to everything.
Neither of us speaks as he pulls away from the kerb.
The silence isn’t uncomfortable. Not exactly. It’s simply… heavy.
The radio stays off.
The city slides past outside the windows in warm July sunlight. People carrying shopping bags. Children chasing each other through the park. Cafés overflowing onto pavements with couples drinking iced coffees as though the world hasn’t shifted irrevocably beneath someone else’s feet.
I watch them without really seeing them.
“So,” he says eventually, his voice deliberately light, “there’s a little Italian place about fifteen minutes away that usually isn’t too busy.”
I nod. “Okay.”
A few minutes later he glances towards it from the driver’s seat before quietly saying, “Actually… no.”
“What?”
“Too many people.”
I look through the windscreen. He’s right. The pavement outside is packed. Every table is occupied and people stand waiting near the entrance.
Without another word, he keeps driving.
Five minutes later he slows again outside a small café, then shakes his head. “No.”
I blink. “What are you doing?”
“I’m looking.”
“For what?”
“For somewhere that doesn’t feel like too much.”
The answer is so simple that it leaves something painfully warm sitting in my chest. He isn’t choosing somewhere he’d like. He’s trying to imagine how the world feels to me. Another few streets pass beneath the tyres.
Eventually I let out a slow breath. “Valarr.”
“Hm?”
“You can just stop.”
“I don’t mind driving.”
“I know.” I look out across a quiet stretch of river we’d just passed. “Honestly…” I swallow. “We could just eat in the car.”
He looks at me briefly. “You sure?”
I nod. “I don’t really want people.”
He doesn’t question it. At the next takeaway he disappears for barely five minutes before returning with two paper bags that smell faintly of chips and grilled chicken and fresh bread. Another ten minutes later we’re parked beside the river, the engine switched off beneath a line of old trees where only the occasional cyclist passes by.
It’s quiet. Exactly the kind of quiet I’d hoped for.
He hands me one of the bags. “I didn’t know what you’d feel like eating.”
“I don’t really know either.”
“I got options.”
A tiny smile tugs at my mouth. “That sounds like something your dad would say.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
“It really does.”
The smile disappears almost as quickly as it came. I unwrap half my sandwich. Take one bite. Chew. Swallow. It feels like work. Next to me, Valarr pretends not to notice. He eats a few chips instead.
“So…” he says after a while, “Matarys has somehow convinced himself he’s going to pass constitutional law without attending half the lectures.”
I hum absent-mindedly. “He won’t.”
“No.”
“He definitely won’t.”
“He says attendance is a social construct.”
Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes me. “He actually said that?”
“Word for word.”
“I believe that.”
He smiles. “He also—”
“I can’t.” The words leave my mouth sharper than I intend and he stops immediately.
I close my eyes. “I can’t do…” I gesture vaguely between us. “…this.”
“The conversation?”
“Just…” I rub both hands over my face. “I don’t care about Matarys’ lectures right now.”
Silence settles between us before he nods once. “Okay.” No irritation. No hurt. No defensiveness. Just… okay.
He looks back out at the river and quietly continues eating his chips. Nothing more.
The guilt arrives almost immediately. God. He’s driven all over the city trying to find somewhere I could tolerate, bought me lunch, spent the last week worrying because I disappeared and I’ve just snapped at him.
I stare at my sandwich for almost two minutes before speaking again.
“I’m sorry.”
He looks across at me. “You don’t have to apologise.”
“I do.”
“No.”
“I was rude.”
“You’ve had a terrible week.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“I know.”
“And you’re the one person who…” My voice catches unexpectedly. “…who’s actually been kind to me.”
He says nothing. I think he’s waiting, giving me room.
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” I admit quietly. The words seem to open something. “I don’t have anywhere that’s actually mine.” His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “I don’t even know where I’m going to live.” I laugh once. It sounds awful.
“I’ve barely slept.”
“I can tell.”
“I haven’t been eating.”
“I can tell that too.”
“I keep thinking…” I look down at my hands. “What if I can’t afford somewhere? What if Isla gets sick of me? What if work doesn’t want me back after calling in sick? What if I made the biggest mistake of my life?”
The last sentence comes out before I can stop it.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he watches the river for a long moment before speaking. “You can stay with us.”
I blink. “What?”
“Our house.” His voice stays calm. “We’ve got two spare bedrooms.”
“Valarr-”
“I’m serious.”
“No.”
“Just until you’re back on your feet.”
“No.”
“Serena.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t.” I shake my head immediately. “You’ve already done too much.”
“I bought you lunch.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.” His eyes stay on me. “I don’t want to become your responsibility.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I don’t want to burden you.”
Something flickers across his face. Almost sadness. “I thought…” He exhales softly. “I thought I’d made this clear the other night.”
I look at him.
“I love you.” There isn’t even the slightest hesitation. “I don’t mean that because we slept together.” His voice stays wonderfully steady. “I meant it before that.”
“I know.”
“I still mean it now.” He shifts slightly in his seat. “If you tell me you don’t want me around because you need space, I’ll respect that.”
“I don’t—”
“If you tell me to leave you alone for a month, I’ll do it.” His fingers tighten briefly around the paper bag. “But please don’t push me away because you think you’re inconveniencing me.”
He smiles sadly. “Looking after you doesn’t feel like a burden. It feels like exactly where I want to be.”
The tears come before I can stop them.
“I like you so much,” I whisper. “So much…But everything is…” I search helplessly for the word. “Terrifying.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know what my life looks like anymore.”
“I know.”
“I don’t even know who I am right now.”
“You don’t have to.”
I wipe impatiently at my eyes. “I just… You deserve someone who’s uncomplicated.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “I’ve never wanted uncomplicated.”
A wet laugh escapes me. “You say that now.”
“I’ll probably still say it tomorrow.”
Another silence settles between us. This one softer, less frightening.
He reaches slowly across the centre console. Not touching me. Just offering his hand. I look at it for a second before slipping my fingers into his. His thumb brushes gently across my knuckles.
“Is this okay?” he asks quietly.
The question makes something ache inside my chest. Even now. After everything. He’s still asking, still making sure.
I nod. “Yeah.”
He leans across the small space between us slowly enough that I could move away if I wanted to. I don’t. His lips meet mine with a tenderness that almost undoes me completely. There is no urgency. No desperation. Only warmth and reassurance.
The kiss lasts barely a few seconds before he pulls back, resting his forehead lightly against mine.
“You don’t have to figure out your entire future today,” he murmurs.
____
By the time Valarr pulls up outside Isla’s building, I still haven’t entirely convinced myself that I’m actually doing this.
My suitcases are already standing by the front door, packed more neatly than they had been when I’d dragged them out of the apartment I’d shared with Aerion, although the careful folding hasn’t changed the fact that everything inside them represents a life I hadn’t expected to leave behind quite so abruptly.
Isla had hugged me twice before we’d come downstairs. The second hug had lasted longer. “If you hate it,” she’d murmured against my shoulder, “you come straight back here. No questions.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
She’d smiled at me in that sad, knowing way of hers before disappearing back inside, leaving me standing on the pavement with two suitcases and a life that suddenly seemed to fit into remarkably little space.
Valarr loads everything into the boot without making a fuss about it. He doesn’t ask whether I’m sure. He doesn’t tell me this is the right decision. He simply lifts the heavier suitcase before I can reach for it myself, closes the boot, walks around to the driver’s side and waits until I’ve fastened my seatbelt before pulling away. Neither of us speaks for the first several minutes.
The city slides past outside the windows, familiar streets slowly giving way to quieter ones, and I watch people carrying shopping bags, teenagers sitting outside cafés with iced drinks balanced on their knees, a woman walking two enormous dogs that appear to be walking her rather than the other way around.
Everything looks painfully normal. It feels strange that the world continues exactly as it always has when mine seems to have rearranged itself beyond recognition. He glances at me briefly before looking back at the road. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“If this starts feeling weird—”
“It already feels weird.”
I look over at him. The corner of his mouth lifts faintly. “You moving into my house because your life exploded wasn’t exactly on my summer bingo card either.”
Despite myself, I laugh. Only a little. “I assumed as much.”
The silence that follows is lighter than the one before. Not comfortable exactly. Just… easier. “I still feel like I’m imposing.”
He shakes his head almost immediately.
“You’re not.”
“I’ve already been living on Isla’s sofa for over a week.”
“Which is precisely why you shouldn’t have to keep living on Isla’s sofa.”
“I could’ve found somewhere.”
“With what time?” he asks gently.
Still nothing. “Or what money?” Still nothing.
His voice softens. “Serena.” I finally look at him. “I offered because I wanted to.”
“I know.”
“I wouldn’t have if I didn’t.”
I nod quietly. “I know.”
The road curves gently ahead of us. I watch the houses grow larger, the gardens more established, the streets quieter. Everything feels further away from the life I left behind.
“I keep thinking I should feel relieved,” I say after a while. He waits. “I mean, I have somewhere to go. That’s more than a lot of people get.” I press my thumb against the edge of the window. “But it doesn’t feel like relief. It just feels like… another thing I didn’t plan for.”
Valarr’s hands stay steady on the wheel. “You don’t have to feel grateful.” I don’t answer. He doesn’t push. A few more streets pass. Then he says, very quietly, “You can hate it and still need it.”
I look at him again. His profile is calm, focused on the road, but there’s something careful in the way he says it.
“I don’t hate it,” I say.
He nods once. “Good.”
The car slows as we turn into a tree-lined road. I recognise it from the other night, though everything looks different in daylight. The house appears at the end of the drive, solid and quiet. Valarr pulls up and switches off the engine. “You ready?” he asks.
I stare at the house for a long moment. Then I nod. “As I’ll ever be.”
He gets out first and I follow. The air feels different here, cooler, with the faint smell of cut grass and something sweet I can’t name. He opens the boot and lifts both suitcases without comment. I stand beside him, looking up at the house that is about to become, for some undefined period of time, the place I live.
Valarr glances at me. “You don’t have to decide anything today.”
I know he means more than just the house.
“I know,” I say.
_____
His house looks exactly as it always has.
Large. Warm. The climbing roses beside the front gate have opened completely since the party, spilling pale flowers over the stone wall, and somewhere in the back garden I can hear the faint rush of the pool filter running beneath birdsong. It almost hurts that everything here has remained so familiar while everything else has changed.
Valarr carries both suitcases upstairs before I can protest.
“This one,” he says, stopping outside a door halfway along the corridor. He pushes it open. The room is simple. Bright. A large window overlooking the garden, a neatly made bed, a desk beneath the window. Built-in wardrobes along one wall.
It doesn’t look like a guest room that’s been hastily thrown together. It looks… lived in once. Comfortable.
“It’s usually where relatives stay when they visit,” he explains, setting my suitcase beside the wardrobe. “Dad had someone come in yesterday to change the bedding.”
Yesterday. He’s been preparing this. The thought settles somewhere quietly inside me.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d actually come,” he admits with a small smile.
“I wasn’t sure either.”
He smiles a little wider. “I know.”
I stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, looking around without really seeing anything. My entire life now fits inside two suitcases sitting beside someone else’s wardrobe. The reality of that lands a little harder than I’d expected.
“I know this probably feels…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “…strange.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“I don’t expect you to feel at home immediately.” His voice is as calm as ever. “I just want you to feel safe.”
Safe. The word catches me unexpectedly. I haven’t realised until this moment how long it’s been since someone cared more about whether I felt safe than whether I was convenient.
“I’ve put clean towels in the bathroom,” he continues. “The one across the hall is yours while you’re here.”
I nod.
“If you need anything, just ask.”
Another nod.
“The Wi-Fi password is written on the little card by the desk.”
I actually smile this time. “Very organised.”
“My father would be deeply disappointed if it weren’t.”
“I can imagine.”
A quiet laugh escapes him. “I’ll leave you alone for a while.” I look up. “You’ve probably had enough people making decisions for you recently.”
I hadn’t thought about it like that.
“But…” he continues, rubbing the back of his neck almost shyly, “I was thinking I’d cook dinner around seven.”
“You don’t have to cook.”
“I know.”
“I can make something.. You’ve already done enough.”
He smiles again. “We’ve established that I disagree.”
I shake my head. “Valarr…”
“No pressure.” His tone stays wonderfully gentle. “If you’re tired, stay here. If you don’t feel like talking, that’s alright. If you want to eat dinner in complete silence, that’s alright too.” He shrugs lightly. “I’ll probably make too much pasta anyway.”
I laugh properly this time. “I believe that.”
“I’ve been told it’s genetic.”
“I didn’t know cooking excessive amounts was hereditary.”
“It is in our family.” He walks backwards toward the doorway. “I’ll leave you to unpack.” He hesitates for barely a second. “If you need anything…”
“I know.”
He nods once. Then, without trying to linger or say one thing too many, he quietly closes the door behind him. The room falls silent and I stand there for a long moment. The suitcases. The neatly made bed. The unfamiliar wardrobe. The sunlight stretching across the wooden floor. It doesn’t feel like home. Not yet. Maybe it never will.
But for the first time since leaving the apartment, I realise something that surprises me. When Valarr closed the door, I didn’t feel abandoned. I felt… trusted.
Trusted to breathe. Trusted to unpack when I was ready. Trusted to find my own pace instead of being hurried toward someone else’s. I sink slowly onto the edge of the bed and let out a long breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. Outside, somewhere in the garden, I hear the faint splash of water as someone dives into the pool.
For the first time in weeks, nobody is demanding anything from me. Nobody is shouting. Nobody is asking me to justify myself. There is only a quiet room, two suitcases, and the promise of dinner at seven.
____
The shower helps. Not because it changes anything, because it doesn’t, but because for twenty uninterrupted minutes the only thing I have to think about is the warmth of the water against my skin and the familiar routine of shampoo and soap and conditioner, all those ordinary little rituals that belong to a life before everything became so impossibly complicated.
Afterwards, I stand in the middle of the guest room with a towel wrapped around my hair, looking at my suitcase. It’s still lying exactly where Valarr left it. Open and untouched. I tell myself I should unpack. At least the clothes. At least the toiletries. At least something that makes it look as though I intend to stay longer than a single night. Instead, I crouch beside it for a minute, lift one jumper halfway out, then put it back exactly where it came from.
The suitcase remains open on the floor. Somehow closing it feels dishonest and unpacking it feels worse. As though either decision commits me to something I still haven’t entirely accepted.
I sit down on the edge of the bed instead. The mattress gives softly beneath my weight. Without really intending to, I let myself fall backwards until I’m lying flat on my back, staring up at the white ceiling.
It’s comfortable. Ridiculously comfortable. The sort of bed you sink into without noticing you’ve done it.
I could probably fall asleep here in seconds.
The thought makes me laugh quietly to myself. That would be unfortunate. Dinner. Valarr had said seven. I glance towards the bedside clock. Quarter to.
My stomach growls. Loudly enough that I actually look down at it in mild disbelief.
“I heard that,” I mutter.
Apparently, despite everything else, my body has finally decided it would quite like to be fed.
I sigh and force myself upright.
—
I spend longer getting ready than I probably need to, but I don’t want to walk downstairs looking as though I’ve completely fallen apart. The thought of meeting Valarr’s family in the same oversized jumper I’ve been wearing for three consecutive days suddenly feels unbearable. I pull on clean jeans. A soft cream-coloured knit top. Dry my hair properly. Brush it until it behaves. Even put on a little concealer beneath my eyes, although there isn’t enough makeup in the world to disguise a week of crying.
When I look in the mirror afterwards, I don’t look happy. I don’t even look well. But I look… presentable. Like someone capable of sitting through dinner without immediately alarming everyone.
—
The smell reaches me before I reach the kitchen. Garlic. Fresh basil. Something roasting. Tomatoes. It smells warm. Comforting. Like someone’s actually cooked because they wanted people to eat together.
When I step into the kitchen, Valarr is standing at the stove with one hand resting on the handle of a saucepan, while Matarys is setting plates on the table with considerably less enthusiasm.
Both of them look up.
“Hey,” Valarr says, smiling softly.
“Hey.”
His eyes move over me for only a second. Long enough to notice I’d changed. Long enough that something in his expression eases ever so slightly.
“You look better.”
“I showered and brushed my hair.”
“I can see that.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “It looks nice.”
Heat rises faintly into my cheeks. “Thank you.”
Matarys clears his throat dramatically. “I feel like I’m interrupting something.”
Valarr doesn’t even look at him. “You usually are.”
“I have impeccable timing.”
“You absolutely don’t.”
“I do.”
I can’t help laughing.
Matarys points triumphantly at me. “See? She laughed.. I remain hilarious.”
“You remain something,” Valarr says.
Dinner is already laid out. Pasta. Salad. Fresh bread. Far too much food for three people.
“You made all this?” I ask.
Valarr shrugs. “It kept me busy.”
Matarys snorts. “He says that like he didn’t spend forty-five minutes deciding which parmesan to buy.”
I sit down quietly opposite them. The conversation carries itself naturally after that. Mostly between the brothers. Matarys talks about a lecturer who somehow managed to set off the fire alarm during class. Valarr tells him he’s exaggerating.
“You are genetically incapable of telling a story without adding thirty percent.”
“I round up for entertainment.”
I mostly listen and occasionally smile. Occasionally answer when either of them asks me something simple.
The food is good, better than good. I actually manage almost half the plate before realising I’m eating.
—
It’s somewhere between the pasta and dessert that Matarys looks at me.
“So…”
My stomach tightens instinctively.
“So?” Valarr repeats carefully.
“So…” He gestures vaguely with his fork. “How long are you staying?”
I blink. “I… don’t really know yet.”
“Right.” He nods. “Fair enough.”
Another mouthful. Then—
“So are you two together now?”
The fork stops halfway to my mouth. Across the table, Valarr goes completely still.
“I was just asking,” Matarys says quickly. “It’s not a ridiculous question.. I mean…” Matarys shrugs. “You’re living here now.”
“I am temporarily staying here,” I correct quietly.
“Right. Temporary.” He nods again.
Then, entirely unable to resist himself, adds, “I was mostly wondering whether I should invest in better headphones.”
Silence. He looks between us. “…For reasons.”
Valarr closes his eyes briefly. “Matarys.”
“What? I don’t particularly want to hear…” He waves his fork vaguely between us. “…anything.”
The implication lands instantly. Heat floods straight into my face. “Oh my God,” I mumble.
Matarys sees it immediately. The colour drains from his own expression. “Oh.” He puts his fork down. “No. No, that came out completely wrong. I’m sorry.” Genuinely sorry. “I was trying to be funny.”
“You weren’t,” Valarr says flatly.
“I realise that now.”
He looks at me. “I’m really sorry, Serena. I genuinely didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“I know.”
“I’ve got absolutely no filter.”
“That,” Valarr says, “is the first accurate thing you’ve said all evening.”
The room falls awkwardly quiet and I stare down at my plate. Suddenly the appetite I’d only just rediscovered disappears again.
“I think…” My voice comes out much quieter than I’d intended. “I think I’m actually just really tired.” Both brothers look at me. “I might…” I push my chair back slowly. “I might go upstairs.”
Valarr is already standing before I’ve even finished the sentence. “Of course.” His voice is gentle. “No problem. You don’t have to explain.”
I nod once. “Thank you… for dinner.”
“It was my pleasure.”
As I reach the doorway, I glance back only once. Valarr is looking directly at Matarys. Not saying a word. He doesn’t need to. The glare alone is enough that even Matarys visibly sinks a little lower in his chair. His mouth opens, then closes again. He knows.
I quietly make my way upstairs before either of them can say anything else, closing the guest-room door behind me with a soft click. Outside, I can hear the faint murmur of their voices beginning again downstairs, too distant to make out the words.
I lean back against the closed door and close my eyes. It isn’t that Matarys had been cruel. He hadn’t. It isn’t even that the joke had been particularly terrible. On any other day, I probably would have rolled my eyes and laughed. But today, sitting at someone else’s table in someone else’s house with my entire life still packed into an open suitcase upstairs, it had reminded me just how temporary all of this felt. How uncertain. How frighteningly easy it would be to lose yet another place that had only just begun to feel safe.
_____
Valarrs POV
The house feels unusually quiet after dinner.
Matarys is still downstairs somewhere, loudly emptying the dishwasher in what I suspect is an elaborate attempt to prove he is not hiding from me after his spectacularly ill-timed joke. I can hear the faint murmur of Dad's voice through the study door now that he has finally finished his meeting. But the guest room upstairs is quiet.
I catch myself looking toward the ceiling more than once while I am putting plates into the sink. I shouldn't. If Serena wants company, she will come downstairs. If she wants to be alone, then she deserves that too. She has spent the better part of two weeks having circumstances dictate every decision she makes. The last thing she needs is me knocking on her door asking whether she is alright every half hour. She is entitled to breathe. Even if it means I spend the evening wondering whether she ate enough.
Matarys appears beside me, drying a plate.
"You know," he says carefully, "I really am sorry."
I do not look at him. "I know."
"I genuinely didn't think."
"No."
"I was trying to lighten the mood."
"You made it worse."
"I know."
There is a pause.
"I feel like an idiot."
"You should."
He sighs dramatically. "I'm not going upstairs," he says after a moment. "I think she'd rather not see me right now."
I finally glance sideways at him.
"Probably." I dry my hands on the tea towel.
"I'm going swimming."
His eyebrows lift. "At nine o'clock?"
"I need to think."
"You always swim when you need to think."
"Exactly."
⸻
The water is cooler than I had expected.
The first dive knocks the lingering tension from my shoulders almost immediately, and I stay beneath the surface longer than necessary, listening to the strange muffled silence that only exists underwater. Everything becomes simpler down here. No conversations. No decisions. Just the steady pressure of the water surrounding me.
When I finally surface, the evening air feels warm against my face. The garden lights have come on automatically, throwing soft amber pools across the stone patio, while the underwater lights turn the pool an impossible shade of blue. I swim another few lengths. Slowly. Without counting. Mostly because every time I stop moving, my thoughts return upstairs.
To the way Serena had apologised for existing. To the way she had thanked me for dinner as though eating food in my house required gratitude. The thought settles heavily somewhere beneath my ribs. She still does not believe she is allowed to stay. Not really. She thinks she is borrowing space. She does not understand that, if she wanted to, she could leave her suitcase open for six months and nobody in this house would care.
I stop at the edge of the pool, resting both forearms on the stone. The upstairs windows are dark. Or at least hers is. Maybe she is asleep already. Maybe she is crying again. Maybe she is simply lying on that bed, staring at the ceiling the way people do when thinking becomes unavoidable. I do not know. I hate not knowing.
My phone lies on one of the loungers beside my towel. I climb out, water dripping onto the paving stones, and pick it up. My thumb hovers over our messages. Three dots. Nothing. Delete. Type again. Are you alright? Delete. Too much. Do you want to talk? Delete. Also too much. I do not want her to feel obliged to answer me. I do not want every message from me to become another responsibility.
Eventually, I type the simplest thing I can think of.
I'm down by the pool if you'd like some company. No pressure at all. If you'd rather rest, that's completely okay too.
I stare at it for another few seconds. Then add, Sleep well if I don't see you tonight.
That feels better. An invitation. Not an expectation. I hit send before I can overthink it. I place my phone back on the lounger and slide into the water again. One length. Then another. Then another. Halfway through the fourth, I hear the faint sound of the back door opening. I do not turn immediately. It could be Dad. It could be Matarys looking for another opportunity to annoy me.
I reach the end of the pool before pushing my wet hair back and looking toward the patio. For a heartbeat, I think I am imagining her. She is standing barefoot just outside the open doors, wearing an oversized sweatshirt with the sleeves pulled over her hands, her hair still slightly damp from her shower, uncertain enough that it looks as though she is already considering turning back inside.
Our eyes meet across the water. A small, almost shy smile finds its way onto my face before I can stop it.
_____
Serenas POV
The guest room is quiet. Not the kind of quiet that feels lonely. Just… still.
The window is open a fraction, letting the warm evening air drift inside, carrying the faint scent of chlorine and freshly cut grass from the garden below, while somewhere in the distance a car passes through the otherwise peaceful neighbourhood before disappearing again. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. I have not unpacked. The suitcase is still open on the floor where I left it hours ago, clothes folded neatly inside as though I am preparing to leave tomorrow rather than trying to begin living here. It still does not feel like my room. It feels borrowed. Temporary. Like everything else in my life. I replay dinner in my head because apparently my brain has decided that is what we are doing now. Matarys asking whether I was staying. That had not bothered me. Not really. The other question had.
So are you two together now?
I close my eyes. Even now, sitting alone in this room, it feels almost absurd. Together. The word sounds impossibly simple. Too simple. As though all someone has to do is decide, and suddenly everything falls neatly into place. Except nothing about this is neat. Nothing about it is simple. I have broken up with my boyfriend. I have moved into another man's house. I am sleeping in his guest room. His family knows something happened between us. Half my life is still sitting inside two suitcases on the floor. Nothing about this resembles the straightforward beginning of a relationship. It feels messy. Complicated. Wrong.
And yet… My thoughts drift, inevitably, to him. To the way he had stood beside the stove this evening, pretending not to watch whether I was eating. To the way he had simply said, You look better, after I had showered, without making a performance of how awful I had looked beforehand. To the way he had quietly stood up the moment I said I was tired, not asking me to stay, not making me explain myself, simply accepting that I had reached my limit for the day.
The ridiculous thing is… None of those are the moments I should be thinking about. Not after everything that has happened. Not after him telling me he loved me. Not after waking up beside him. Not after that kiss in the garden that had turned my entire world upside down. And yet those are exactly the moments that refuse to leave me alone. The ordinary ones. The way he notices when I have eaten. The way he remembers how I take my coffee. The way he never pushes. Never demands. Never makes me feel guilty for needing space. My throat tightens unexpectedly. He loves me. I know he does. Not because he said it. Because he shows it in a hundred tiny ways that would have meant absolutely nothing to me six months ago. Now they mean everything.
I roll onto my side, pulling the duvet higher. The awful thing is… I love him too. The thought does not arrive dramatically. It does not strike like lightning. It settles quietly inside me with the strange certainty of something I have actually known for quite a long time. Otherwise… I never would have kissed him back. I never would have gone upstairs with him. I never would have fallen asleep wrapped in his arms feeling happier than I can ever remember feeling.
I love him. Not because he makes grand declarations. Not because he rescued me. Not because he is handsome, although he very much is. I love him because he listens. Because he notices. Because he always seems to understand what I need before I have found the words to tell him. Because he makes space for me. Because around him I do not feel like I have to earn kindness.
A laugh escapes me, soft and humourless. It is almost funny. I have spent days convincing myself everything is impossibly complicated. Maybe… Maybe the feelings themselves are not complicated at all. Maybe they are the simplest part of this entire mess.
My phone buzzes on the bedside table. I reach for it automatically. It is from Valarr.
I'm down by the pool if you'd like some company. No pressure at all. If you'd rather rest, that's completely okay too. Sleep well if I don't see you tonight.
I read it twice. Then a third time. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth before I realise it is there. Of course he would write no pressure. Of course he would make it as easy as possible for me to say no.
I lock my phone. Set it back down. Then immediately pick it up again. I could stay here. I probably should. It is late. I have already had an emotional day. The sensible thing would be to get some sleep. Instead I find myself looking towards the open suitcase. Specifically… Towards the white bikini folded carefully beneath a pile of T-shirts.
I stare at it for several long seconds.
"This is ridiculous," I mutter to myself.
Maybe it is. Maybe everything about this is ridiculous. The timing. The circumstances. The fact that I am standing in a guest room wearing borrowed certainty and borrowed courage. But I am suddenly so tired of thinking. So tired of analysing every feeling until it stops feeling like anything at all. For once… Just once… Maybe I can stop asking myself what the correct decision is. Maybe I can simply choose the thing I want.
I kneel beside the suitcase and pull the bikini free. A minute later I change into it, pulling an oversized sweatshirt over the top before slipping my phone into the pocket. I catch my reflection briefly in the mirror. I still look tired. Still bruised around the eyes. Still very much like someone whose life has been turned upside down. But I also look… lighter. As though, somewhere beneath all the uncertainty, something inside me has finally stopped pretending.
I slip quietly out of the bedroom, easing the door shut behind me before making my way downstairs. The house is almost completely dark now. Only a lamp glows beneath Baylor's study door. The rest of the ground floor sits in comfortable silence.
I unlock the back door carefully. Warm summer air brushes against my face. Beyond the terrace, the pool glows pale blue beneath the night sky. And there he is. Moving effortlessly through the water, his shoulders breaking the surface before disappearing beneath it again, completely unaware that I am standing there watching him. I do not call his name. For a moment, I simply stand in the doorway, letting myself look at him without wondering whether I should. Then I take a quiet step onto the stone patio.
______
Valarrs POV
"You came," I say, smiling before I can stop myself.
She smiles back, small and almost shy.
"I did."
I rest my forearms on the edge of the pool.
"I wasn't sure if you would."
"I wasn't either."
She laughs quietly to herself.
"I spent about ten minutes arguing with myself."
"And?"
"And then I got tired of listening."
"I know the feeling."
She steps closer to the edge. "I hope you don't mind." She hooks her thumbs beneath the hem of the sweatshirt.
"No," I say honestly. "I really don't."
She pulls it over her head. The white bikini appears beneath it, simple and unmistakably familiar. For one dangerously long second my brain forgets how language works. It isn't even about the bikini. It's the fact that she's here. With me.
She folds the sweatshirt neatly over one of the loungers before glancing back at the water.
"Are you just going to stare?"
I blink. "...Possibly."
The corners of her mouth lift. "That wasn't very subtle."
"I wasn't aiming for subtle."
She shakes her head, laughing under her breath. "You are unbelievable."
"So I've been told."
She sits on the edge of the pool, lowering one foot into the water. "Oh."
"What?"
"It's colder than I expected."
"It isn't."
"It absolutely is."
"It just takes getting used to."
She narrows her eyes at me. "Easy for you to say."
"I've been in here for twenty minutes."
She sighs dramatically but slips into the water anyway with a sharp intake of breath, disappearing beneath the surface before emerging a second later with both hands immediately pushing wet hair away from her face.
"Oh, that's definitely cold."
I grin. "You'll survive."
"I might not." She swims toward me, slower than usual, still adjusting to the temperature. When she reaches the middle of the pool, I push gently away from the wall.
"You look better," I say quietly.
"I know."
We drift beside one another in comfortable silence, neither of us swimming particularly far, just floating lazily beneath the evening sky. The water reflects the garden lights in soft ribbons of gold. Somewhere beyond the hedge, someone is laughing in another garden. It feels strangely peaceful.
She splashes me. Not hard. Just enough to catch me completely off guard. A handful of water lands squarely across my face.
I blink and she freezes. "...That may have been a mistake."
"Oh?"
"I think I underestimated how competitive you are."
I slowly wipe the water from my eyes.
"You definitely underestimated how competitive I am."
She begins backing away immediately. "No."
"Oh, yes."
"Valarr."
"You started this."
"I've changed my mind."
"Too late."
She squeals as I lunge forward, sending a wave across the pool. "You—"
Another splash. She retaliates instantly. Within seconds the careful, quiet atmosphere has completely disappeared. Water flies in every direction. Neither of us has any real strategy beyond trying to soak the other person as thoroughly as possible.
"I surrender," she laughs.
"I don't believe you."
She ducks beneath the surface just as I reach for her. When she comes back up behind me, both hands shove firmly between my shoulder blades. I stumble forward with a completely undignified splash. "That was cheating."
"There are no rules." She swims away again before I can answer.
"Oh, you're in trouble now."
"I don't think I am."
"You should."
She laughs again. God. I'd almost forgotten what her laugh sounded like before all of this. Not the polite little ones she'd forced over the last week. The real one. Bright. Effortless. The sound alone makes something inside my chest loosen.
She reaches the far edge first. I catch up a second later. Without thinking, I catch hold of her wrist. "Got you."
She gasps dramatically. "Unfair."
"You literally pushed me."
"You deserved it."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
She twists, trying to pull free. I don't tighten my grip. I barely hold on at all. Just enough that she has to work for it.
"Oh, come on," she laughs. "You can do better than that."
"Can I?"
"I know you can."
She suddenly plants both hands against my shoulders and shoves. Hard. Completely unprepared, I lose my balance. The water closes over my head. When I surface again, she's already laughing so hard she's barely staying afloat.
"I can't believe that worked."
"It won't twice."
"Oh?"
I reach for her again. This time she doesn't get away. One arm slips lightly around her waist. The other catches her wrist.
"You've made a terrible mistake."
She looks up at me, laughing. "You wouldn't."
"You've got about three seconds."
"I don't believe you."
"Three."
Her smile widens. "Two."
She leans closer instead of farther away.
"One."
Neither of us moves. The laughter fades naturally. Until all that's left is the sound of water moving gently around us. She's still in my arms. Not trapped. Simply there. Close enough that I can see the tiny droplets of water clinging to her eyelashes. Close enough that her breathing has become the only thing I'm really aware of. Her eyes lift to mine. Something changes. The playfulness doesn't disappear. It simply... settles into something quieter. Warmer.
My hand loosens slightly against her waist.
"If you want me to let go..." I don't finish the sentence.
She gives the smallest shake of her head.
"No." The word is barely louder than the water. "I don't."
I search her face for another second. Just to be certain. Then I lift one hand and brush a damp strand of hair behind her ear.
"Is this okay?" I ask it every time. I probably always will.
Her smile is so small I almost miss it.
"It always amazes me that you ask."
"I always will."
"I know." She closes the last inch between us herself. The kiss begins softly. Almost cautiously. As though neither of us wants to disturb the fragile peace we've somehow found tonight. Then she sighs against my mouth. My other hand settles carefully at the small of her back. She melts against me so naturally it feels less like pulling her closer and more like she'd been trying to reach me all along. The kiss deepens. Simply because neither of us seems capable of stopping. Her fingers slide into my damp hair while mine remain against her waist. The pool water rocks gently around us as we drift without noticing. When we finally pull apart, neither of us goes very far. Our foreheads rest together. She's smiling. So am I. "I think," she whispers between quiet breaths, "you won."
I laugh softly. "I don't think there was a winner."
"There definitely was."
⸻
Serena’s POV
Neither of us moves very far. The water rocks gently around us, carrying us a few inches one way and then the other, until we're almost drifting without realizing it, and his forehead rests lightly against mine while the evening settles around us in the quiet way summer evenings always seem to.
He's smiling. So am I. "I think," I whisper, still slightly breathless, "you won."
A quiet laugh escapes him. "I don't think there was a winner."
"There definitely was."
"Oh?"
"I came downstairs."
His smile softens. "I was already having a pretty good evening before that."
I roll my eyes. "You're impossible."
The silence that follows isn't awkward. It's comfortable. The kind that doesn't ask to be filled because both people already understand it.
His thumb brushes slowly across the curve of my waist beneath the water.
"So..." he says quietly. "Are we okay?"
The question catches me off guard.
I blink at him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..." He hesitates, which still surprises me every time because Valarr almost never hesitates. "Everything has happened so quickly that I keep wondering whether you're going to wake up one morning and decide this was all too much."
My chest tightens. "Oh."
"I know you've had a week from hell," he says, holding my gaze steadily. "I know you're carrying more than anyone should have to carry at once, and I don't expect anything from you. I don't need promises. I don't need answers today." He smiles faintly. "I just... wanted to make sure you knew that I'm here regardless."
I stare at him. Because that's exactly the problem. He's here. Every single time. Without asking for anything back. Without making me earn it. Without making me feel guilty for needing him.
I think about Aerion. About all the months I spent convincing myself that love meant shrinking, apologizing, making excuses for someone else's disappointment until it became my own. Then I think about the man standing in front of me now, whose first instinct, every single time he's touched me, has been to ask if I'm okay. The comparison is so stark that it almost hurts.
A small laugh escapes me.
"What?"
"I've been trying so hard to make sense of everything," I admit quietly. "Trying to figure out whether I was making a mistake, whether I was ruining my life, whether I was a terrible person..." I shake my head. "And somewhere in all of that, I kept forgetting to ask myself the simplest question."
"What question?"
"How I actually feel."
He doesn't interrupt. He just waits. I've always loved that about him.
"I know now."
His expression barely changes, but I see something flicker behind his eyes.
"You do?"
I nod once. "I love you."
The words leave my mouth so quietly that they almost disappear into the evening air. For a heartbeat neither of us moves. He just looks at me like he's making sure he heard me correctly.
"What?"
A nervous laugh escapes me.
"I love you," I repeat, a little louder this time, feeling my face grow warm. "I think I've been trying not to admit it because admitting it makes everything else real, and everything else is terrifying..." My smile trembles. "But you aren't." I reach up and cup his face. "You've never been the frightening part of this."
His eyes close for just a second. When they open again they're shining in a way I've never seen before.
"You have absolutely no idea," he says quietly, "what hearing you say that does to me."
"I think I do."
He shakes his head once. "No."
A tiny, disbelieving laugh escapes him.
"I've imagined this conversation so many times over the last two years, and somehow..." He swallows. "Somehow I still got it wrong."
"Why?"
"Because in every version I imagined," he says softly, "I was the only one in love."
My heart breaks a little for the version of him who believed that. I smile through the sting behind my eyes. "You were never alone."
He kisses me then. Like he's memorizing the moment. Like after two years of waiting, neither of us has anywhere else we'd rather be. When we finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against mine again, smiling with the kind of quiet happiness that seems to reach all the way into his eyes.
"I really love you," he murmurs.
"I know."
"I've been waiting a long time to say that without feeling guilty."
The gardens are eerily quiet. That is the very first thing Valarr perceives upon stepping into their tranquil embrace. Not merely peaceful, but eerily still, wrongly silent, as if the familiar symphony of the Red Keep’s bustling life had been deliberately silenced and buried beneath an unseen, suffocating blanket of silence. He stands amidst the lush rose bushes, heavy with the scent of summer blooms, his gaze fixed on the winding, serpentine paths stretching out before him like a maze of memories he cannot quite grasp. For a fleeting moment, his mind refuses to produce the memory of how he came to be here—what he was doing just moments before this strange stillness settled upon him. He had been.. What was it? The thought slips away before he can grasp it, dissolving like mist in the sunlight. The warmth of the sun bathes his skin, and the sky above is an impossibly vibrant shade of azure, stretching endlessly and unblemished by clouds. Somewhere nearby, the unmistakable sound of children’s laughter echoes softly through the silence, light, carefree, innocent. It draws his attention, and he turns instinctively toward the cheerful noise. The laughter originates from the lower gardens, where a picnic blanket has been spread beneath the shade of an ancient tree— one of those majestic oaks whose broad branches cast enough shadow to shelter half a household during the height of summer. There, amidst the dappled sunlight and rustling leaves, sits a woman. Her brown hair cascades in gentle waves around her shoulders, and her eyes are a vivid shade of green.. alive, warm, and familiar. Her profile is so recognizable that it slices through the haze of confusion that clouds Valarr’s mind, anchoring him in a moment that feels both distant and painfully immediate. His chest tightens with a strange, aching relief. Gods. There she is. For reasons beyond his understanding, he had been searching for her, searching with a desperation that clawed at his soul. And now, as he beholds her, that realization crashes over him like a tidal wave, she is here. She is real. But something is off. Strangely, she has not noticed him. She sits there, smiling faintly, her gaze fixed on the children racing across the grass with unrestrained joy. Children. Four of them. The oldest girl, no more than seven, her hair flying behind her as she dashes forward, sports a pair of brown eyes that seem to shimmer with mischief and innocence. The sight of her catches Valarr completely off guard, this is Vaella, yet she is so much older, so much more… real, more vivid than he remembers. His breath catches in his throat. His little girl so small, so delicate— stands before him now, older, full of life and movement, her laughter ringing out as she chases after one of the boys. It’s the same sound, he tells himself—exactly the same— yet it’s also different. His feet move instinctively, carrying him across the grass towards them before he even consciously realizes. No one stops him, no one seems surprised by his presence, perhaps because they don’t see him at all. The children continue their game, unperturbed. The oldest boy, probably around six, runs past with a wooden sword clutched tightly in his small hands, his face alight with mischief. A younger sibling follows close behind, a smaller girl tumbling after them, her laughter like bells ringing in the air.
Valarr’s gaze flicks from one child to the next, brown hair, brown eyes, faces so familiar yet so strange— each piece fitting together like fragments of a puzzle he is only beginning to understand. Pieces of Alysanne, pieces of himself, all swirling in a confusing, painful mosaic. His stomach twists painfully. Who are they? The question feels absurd, almost pointless, yet it persists— gnawing at him with relentless insistence. Somehow, deep within, he already knows the truth; knows what these faces represent. The oldest girl notices him first. Vaella slows her stride, dark eyes locking onto his own, searching, questioning. For a moment, they stand there, silent, suspended in time, staring at each other as if they speak a language only they understand. Valarr manages a smile.. soft, involuntary, born of a tumult of emotions that threaten to overwhelm him. “Vaella,” he whispers, the name spilling forth almost involuntarily, heavy with longing. The girl tilts her head slightly, her expression a mixture of confusion and politeness, as if a stranger has addressed her, unfamiliar and distant. The smile falters on Valarr’s face, slipping away like sand through his fingers. She doesn’t recognize him. Something cold and hollow settles deep within his chest, an ache that spreads through him like icy water. “Do I know you?” she asks, her voice as innocent as a summer breeze.. sweet, curious and unknowing.
Valarr’s heart clenches painfully. He stares, silent. The question should not hurt, yet it does, more than he thought possible. It wounds him deeply, piercing through layers of hope and despair alike. “No,” he finally replies, voice trembling with a strange mixture of regret and longing. Vaella nods immediately, her expression settling into a polite, childlike acceptance, and then she offers him a smile, one that children often give to strangers before turning away, retreating to the comfort of her companions. And with that, she runs back toward the others, leaving Valarr standing alone.. confused, lost, and aching with a silent, gnawing sense of emptiness. A familiar laugh draws his attention once more. Alysanne. For a fleeting moment, relief washes over him, hope fluttering in his chest, certain that she will see him, recognize him, call to him, but then she looks up. Her gaze meets his and the connection is severed instantly. There is no recognition, no surprise, no warmth, no flicker of acknowledgment. Only a distant, polite detachment, as if he were nothing more than a passing courtier in her day. Valarr’s stomach drops, an icy dread settling deep in his core. Then, unexpectedly, someone sits beside her, someone he hadn’t noticed before. Gods, how had he missed him? Matarys. His brother, settling onto the blanket with effortless familiarity, as if he belongs there, as if he’s always been part of this scene. Alysanne shifts slightly to make room for him, movement so natural, so practiced, that it pierces through Valarr’s senses like a knife. The two exchange words, words that float softly through the air. Alysanne laughs so softly and comfortably, with genuine amusement, without flirtation or pretense, as if sharing a moment among old friends who have known each other for years. The sight twists something painfully inside Valarr’s chest, a knot of longing and despair tightening with each passing second. This is wrong. Everything about it feels wrong. He senses it with an instinct that cannot be ignored. And yet, the certainty only deepens when Matarys reaches out and gently brushes a loose strand of Alysanne’s hair from her face, a gesture tender and intimate, so familiar that it makes his stomach churn. Alysanne responds with a soft smile, not pulling away, her eyes gleaming with something unspoken. Valarr’s fists clench. He takes a step forward, then another. His heart pounds violently in his chest and he wants to call her name. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs, to demand what this absurd, cruel tableau means, why none of them recognize him, why they act as if they are strangers. But no sound escapes his lips. The children continue to laugh and chase each other while the gardens remain stunningly beautiful. The sunlight persists in its warm, golden glow. And that, cruelly, makes everything worse because no one looks unhappy. No one appears frightened or lost. No one shows any sign of pain or confusion. Only him. Only Valarr. Standing there, alone amidst strangers wearing the faces of those he loves most, yet utterly unknowable. Then, suddenly, Alysanne leans forward and she kisses Matarys briefly and softly, as if it were just an ordinary gesture between two dear friends. Valarr’s heart stops and his vision blurs. The laughter of children becomes distant and genuine fear grips him, that terrible, sinking realization that he understands a truth darker than any he has faced before. Not where he is. Not why he is there. But the terrible, unbearable truth beneath it all. That somehow life has continued without him and he is left standing on the outside, watching as everything moves forward in a world that has forgotten him entirely.
_____
Alysannes POV
The nursery feels cramped, suffocating almost, as if the very walls are closing in around you or perhaps it is simply your thoughts that have grown too vast, too heavy to contain within this small space. You are no longer certain of anything, of what is real, what is imagined, what is true. The room is warm, bathed in a gentle, flickering candlelight that casts soft shadows on the walls, creating an illusion of peace, yet none of it reaches you. The toys scattered near the hearth remain untouched, silent witnesses to an innocence now overshadowed by your own turmoil. Vaella’s cradle stands beside the bed, neatly prepared for her nurses, a silent promise of the life yet to be fully realized. Somewhere beyond, a woman quietly folds linens, her movements rhythmic and calm, trying perhaps to impose order on chaos that only you can feel. And still, you pace back and forth, your footsteps echoing softly on the worn wooden floorboards, a restless rhythm that mirrors the storm raging inside your mind. The maester’s words cling to you, relentless, like a shadow you cannot shake. Contagious. The illness is highly contagious. The prince must remain isolated. No visitors. No unnecessary contact. No exceptions. These words resonate in your ears, each syllable a heavy weight pressing down on your chest. You stop momentarily by the window, peering out into the darkening sky, then immediately begin pacing again, driven by a terrible thought that refuses to release you. What if there is no later? What if this sickness worsens, spiraling beyond control? What if—? Your stomach twists painfully, an icy sensation curling through your core. Gods. You press your hand against your forehead, trying to clear the fog, but the room feels stifling, claustrophobic, as if the very air is thick with dread. The nurse, seated quietly beside Vaella, watches you with a careful, empathetic gaze. “My lady,” she ventures softly. You do not answer. Because if you do, you fear you might break.. start crying, and once that begins, you are not sure you will be able to stop. The nurse exchanges a glance with your lady’s maid, a silent communication filled with concern, uncertainty. Neither looks particularly optimistic. “My lady,” the maid whispers gently, “the maester knows what he is doing.” You laugh short and humorless, devoid of genuine amusement. “The maester.. the maester… how would you know what he knows?.” The words tumble out sharper than you intended, sharp enough to cut through the fragile silence. Instantly, regret floods your chest, the words hang heavy in the air. The maid lowers her eyes, murmuring, “I did not mean—”
“I know,” you reply, voice trembling, cracking with emotion. You close your eyes briefly, inhaling slowly, then exhaling a shaky breath. The anger isn’t directed at them, it isn’t directed at anyone. It is simply fear so raw and desperate, searching desperately for somewhere to go. “I do apologize,” you whisper. The maid offers a soft, reassuring smile. “There is nothing to apologize for, my lady.” Yet, her kindness only deepens your sense of despair. You resume pacing, each step creaking beneath your restless weight, the worn floorboards groaning softly beneath you. Outside, beyond the thick stone walls of the castle, faint voices drift through the evening air, distant echoes of life continuing, oblivious to the storm inside your heart. It feels as if the world is unchanging, as if everything remains normal, while your entire universe has been upended, thrown into chaos in an instant. Your hand unconsciously drifts to your stomach, an instinctive gesture, a silent connection to the life growing within you. The baby. Shortly ago, that knowledge had been a source of joy, overwhelming and wondrous, a promise of new life. Now, it only adds weight to your burden, complicating everything with its fragile existence. You lower yourself slowly into one of the nearby chairs, your body trembling as your mind races through all the possibilities, all the fears. The nurse notices immediately. “My lady?” she prompts gently. You stare at the floor, voice barely above a whisper. “If I become ill…” The words catch, thick and choking in your throat. The nurse’s face softens, her expression tender but firm. “You will not,” she assures. “You do not know that,” you whisper in return, voice trembling. “My lady..”
“If I become ill,” you cut her off quietly, “then the baby is at risk.” Silence falls heavy and oppressive. No one argues. Everyone understands. Your hand remains pressed lightly on your abdomen, feeling the faint flutter of life within, a tiny heartbeat, a fragile hope. Another child. Another tiny life. And yet, each decision now feels impossible, tangled in doubt and fear. Because if it were only you, Gods, if it were only you, you would already be there. Ignoring warnings, dismissing cautions, defying every maester’s advice in Westeros. You would be sitting beside Valarr’s bed, holding his hand, refusing to leave, refusing to break the promise of your bond. But it’s not only you. There is Vaella. And now the baby. Your baby. Valarr’s baby. The realization twists painfully in your chest, a sudden ache that makes your head spin. You lower your head, trembling fingers pressed against your lips, fighting back tears. What if he asks for you? The thought hits so suddenly, so fiercely, that tears burn behind your eyes. What if he wakes and asks where you are? What if he thinks you abandoned him? What if—? No. No. Valarr would never think that. But the fear remains, persistent, unyielding. Some things, many things, that logic cannot touch. The nurse rises from her chair, moving closer with gentle purpose. “My lady,” she says softly. You look up, meeting her kind, steady gaze. “The prince loves you,” she says. The words nearly undo you. You look away, because suddenly, the room feels too blurry, too overwhelming. “I know,” you whisper, as if saying it enough times might make it true. The nurse rests a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “He would not wish you to endanger yourself.” Her words cut deep because they are true. Valarr would be furious, not with you, never with you, but with the situation, with the risk, with anyone who allowed it, especially now. Especially with Vaella. Especially with another child on the way. Your eyes drift toward the cradle, toward your daughter. Vaella sleeps peacefully, one tiny hand curled against her cheek, unaware that the adults around her are quietly unraveling. The sight nearly breaks your heart. You love her so much, so impossibly much, and if something were to happen to you, who would stay with her? Who would comfort her? Who would tell her stories at night? The thought weighs heavily in your chest. You close your eyes, trying to breathe, trying to think, trying to make sense of any of it. Yet all you see is Valarr alone, somewhere else in the castle, ill, beyond your reach. Minutes pass, perhaps longer, while the silence lingers, thick and suffocating. The nurse returns to her chair, the lady’s maid resumes her work, and neither dares to break the storm raging within you. Because there is no stopping it, not truly. Eventually, you rise, slow and deliberate, the movement immediately capturing both women’s attention. “My lady?” the nurse prompts softly. You glance toward the cradle, then back at them. Your decision, made in a rush of desperation, takes shape, still uncertain, irrational, but certain enough. “I need to go somewhere.” The nurse’s face shifts instantly, alarmed. “My lady…”
“I am not doing anything foolish,” you say quickly, the words slipping out before you can second-guess yourself. The truth is, you are. The nurse recognizes this, of course. You sigh, then cross the room toward Vaella’s cradle, pausing for a moment just to look at her, your beautiful, tiny daughter, taking in every detail, etching her image into your memory. Then, with gentle fingers, you brush her hair aside and look back at the women. “Watch her for me,” you say softly. The request feels both simple and enormous, a burden you are placing on them without fully understanding the weight. The nurse immediately rises. “Of course, my lady” she replies. You nod once, trying to steady yourself, trying to ignore the pounding of your heart. Because you are still not entirely sure what you are about to do, only that you cannot stay here any longer, not while every thought inside your head spirals back to him.
______
You do not remember crossing half the castle. One moment, you are standing in the nursery, staring at Vaella’s sleeping face, trying desperately not to imagine all the terrible things that could go wrong. The next, you are elsewhere entirely, walking, moving, following instinct more than reason. The corridors of the red keep blur around you, figures and shadows flickering past, servants bowing in silence, voices drifting from distant chambers, indistinct, faint echoes of life continuing as if nothing has changed. You barely notice any of it because there is only one thought pounding relentlessly inside your mind. Valarr. Valarr. Valarr. And you cannot reach him. Gods, that is the worst part. Not knowing. Not seeing him. Not being allowed near him. You stop outside a familiar door, your hand trembling as you stare at it, then knock softly. There is a pause, then footsteps. The door opens. Matarys looks up, and immediately, you see it, the change in his expression. Concern, alarm, a sudden straightening of his shoulders. “Alysanne?” His voice is gentle, careful, as if afraid to startle you further. You open your mouth, but no words come, only tears, spilling over without warning. You simply break. All at once.. fear, worry, exhaustion, helplessness, everything you have been holding in for hours shatters into fragments. Matarys moves before you even realize it. One moment, he’s standing in the doorway; the next, his arms are around you, pulling you inside, closing the door behind him. For the first time since those terrible words from the maester, you stop fighting. The sob that escapes you is humiliating, a raw, desperate sound, not graceful, not composed, simply a cry of someone unraveling. Matarys says nothing at first. He simply holds you, one hand steadying your back, the other cradling the back of your head as you cry against his shoulder like a child— vulnerable and broken. The room is quiet, warm, safe—an island amid the chaos. Your breathing begins to slow, shallow but steady enough to speak. “I can’t—” your voice cracks, trembling, and you swallow hard, trying again. “I can’t get to him.” The words are barely above a whisper, but they burn with the ache of helplessness. Tears sting your eyes anew. “They won’t let me see him.” Matarys closes his eyes briefly, his arm tightening around your shoulders. “I know,” he whispers. “I understand why.” You hate how desperate you sound, how frightened and helpless. “But gods, Matarys” your voice cracks again, “what if something happens?” Silence hangs heavy between you. You pull back slightly, looking up at him, your eyes red, cheeks wet with tears, you don’t care. “What if something happens and I never get to say goodbye?” The room becomes painfully still, the weight of your words pressing down on everything. Matarys’s expression softens, breaking your heart because he looks just as scared as you feel, hidden behind a calm exterior.
“Alysanne—”
“What if this is it?” you cut him off before you can stop yourself, voice trembling with raw emotion. “What if I never see him again?” Your breathing grows uneven, tears spilling freely as you speak. “I should be with him. I should be there.”
“I know,” he replies softly, voice full of sympathy.
“But I’m not.” The words come out almost angrily— at yourself, at the maester, at the illness, at the gods, at everything. “He’s alone.”
“No,” Matarys says immediately, firm, unwavering. “He is not alone.” You look at him, desperate. “He has servants. He has guards.”
You almost laugh bitterly. “A guard is not his wife.”
“No,” his voice softens, “not physically.” For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, softly, he says, “He loves you.” Your eyes close painfully, the words a dagger. Of course you know. You know. “He’s probably demanding to see me every five minutes,” you whisper, a small, bitter laugh escaping despite everything. That sounds just like Valarr. Matarys smiles faintly. “There.” You shake your head, the smile vanishing instantly as another thought surfaces, darker, more terrifying. Your hand drifts unconsciously toward your stomach. The movement catches Matarys’s attention immediately. His brow furrows. But before he can ask, you speak, quietly and trembling. “Promise me something.” The smile disappears, replaced by urgency. “Alysanne,” he begins, concern deepening. “Promise me,” you repeat, voice strained with desperation. The words carry weight, a plea that shifts something between you. Matarys straightens slightly, eyes searching yours.
“What is it?” You stare at him, and suddenly, the possibility feels terrifyingly real. If Valarr dies. If you become ill. If— Gods, you cannot even finish the thought. Your voice trembles. “If something happens to me.” Matarys’s face hardens instantly.
“No.”
“If something happens—”
“Alysanne—”
“Listen to me,” you cut him off sharply, voice raw with emotion. The room falls into a tense silence. You swallow, steadying yourself, then speak more quietly. “If something happens to both of us.” Your hand presses protectively against your stomach. “You must keep Vaella safe.” Matarys freezes, the realization hitting him slowly, piece by piece. His eyes drop briefly to your hand, then return to your face. “Alysanne…” You shake your head, tears threatening again. “Promise me.” His expression shifts. Concern remains, but understanding flickers behind his eyes. Because this is not just fear. This is a mother speaking. A wife. Someone desperate to protect the people she loves. “If something happens to Valarr,” your voice wavers, “and if something happens to me—” Another breath, another impossible breath. “She will have nobody.” “Alysanne,” he says softly.
“You must swear it.” The room falls silent. Matarys stares at you for a long moment, then finally, slowly, he reaches forward, taking both your hands in his, holding them steady, anchoring you. “You listen to me now,” his voice is quiet but firm. “If each of the seven gods and every dragon who ever lived abandoned her, I would still protect Vaella.” Tears spill freely again. Matarys continues, voice unyielding. “I would die before allowing harm to come to her. She is Valarr’s daughter and yours.” A heavy silence settles between you. Your throat tightens painfully. “I swear it,” he says softly. “I will do everything in my power to keep her safe.” You simply stare at him, unable to speak, unable to breathe properly, tears streaming again, not out of fear this time, but out of relief, finally, someone who understands exactly what you are afraid of. And instead of telling you not to worry, he simply promises that your daughter will never be alone, no matter what happens.
____
Valarrs POV
The gardens shift subtly, almost imperceptibly, and Valarr does not notice when it happens. One moment, he stands amid laughter and sunlight, observing a future that somehow exists without him, watching children with his eyes and Alysanne’s smile run across the grass while his wife sits nearby, engaged in quiet conversation with another man. His brother. Then suddenly, he is somewhere else entirely. The same gardens, yet different. The air here feels quieter, still. The sunlight filters through ancient, gnarled trees, casting long shadows on a winding path that beckons him forward without reason or purpose. Valarr walks without understanding why his feet move, his chest still aching, the ghosts of memories haunting him? the sight of Alysanne with the children, Vaella’s bright gaze meeting his and asking if she knew him, the pain of it lingering like a wound reopened. His footsteps carry him around a bend, then he stops abruptly. Someone is sitting on a bench beneath a colossal oak, its leaves whispering softly in the breeze. At first, Valarr only sees a figure, then the man turns his head, and the world seems to freeze. His father. Alive. Whole. Smiling faintly, as if he had merely stepped away from court for an afternoon. Valarr stares, frozen and unable to move, unable to breathe— his heart pounding painfully in his chest. His father die. He remembers the news, the grief, the funeral, every terrible moment etched into his mind. Yet here Baelor sits, as though nothing had changed, as if death were nothing more than a fleeting absence. “Sit,” he says simply, his tone so very familiar, like the countless times he had spoken those words to Valarr throughout his childhood. Without hesitation, Valarr obeys, collapsing onto the bench, the wood creaking beneath him. Silence settles, comfortable and warm, the kind only fathers and sons can share. Valarr stares ahead, afraid that if he looks away, Baelor will vanish like a mirage. After a long moment, his father breaks the quiet. “You look terrible.” A half-laugh escapes Valarr, bitter and broken. “I think I’m dying.” Baelor snorts softly. “You look dramatic enough for it.” The laugh turns real, short and broken but genuine, an honest release of grief he has carried too long. Valarr lowers his head, overwhelmed. Gods, he missed him, more than he ever realized, more than he ever allowed himself to admit. “You died.” Baelor’s gaze remains fixed on the gardens beyond. “Yes,” he replies, calm and unwavering, as if discussing the weather. Valarr swallows hard, voice trembling. “I miss you.” The words escape before he can stop them, trembling with unspoken pain. Baelor’s expression softens, and that makes it worse, because his father always knew when he was hurting. Always. “I know,” he says quietly. Valarr’s eyes burn, tears blurring his vision, the gardens turning hazy. He looks away, ashamed of the tears, a foolish instinct, one Baelor notices immediately. “You were never very good at hiding your feelings.” Valarr offers a weak, bitter laugh. “Neither were you.”
“No,” Baelor agrees with a faint smile. “No, I suppose I wasn’t.” Silence falls again, thick with unspoken truths, until Valarr speaks softly. “I don’t know how to do it.” The confession is simple, the truth spilling from him without thought or preparation. Baelor waits patiently and attentive. Valarr stares at his trembling hands, voice breaking as he admits, “I don’t know how to do any of it.” His throat tightens. “The council. The realm. The expectations.” His words fade into a whisper. “They weigh heavier than I thought.” Baelor listens silently, offering no answer, only presence. Valarr’s voice grows more bitter. “I always thought I’d have more time.” A nod from his father, sad but understanding. “Most sons do.” Valarr closes his eyes, memories flooding back.. standing beside his father, certain he would always be there, certain there would be another conversation, another lesson, another year. Gods, how foolish he had been. “I don’t know if I can carry it,” he whispers, voice raw with despair. The truth of his burden, his crown, everything waiting for him feels impossible. Baelor studies him quietly, then asks softly, “Do you know what frightened me most when you were born?” Valarr blinks, caught off guard. “What?” “You.” The word hits him like a blow, startling him. “Me?” Baelor smiles gently. “I was terrified. I looked at this tiny child and thought.. what if I fail him? What if I am not wise enough? What if I make mistakes? What if I cannot protect him?” The words hang heavy, familiar and painful because Valarr has had those same fears about Vaella and about Baelon before that. Baelor’s smile softens. “There is never a moment when you suddenly become ready. You just keep moving.” Silence stretches between them. Valarr lowers his gaze, tears spilling freely now and this time, he does not hide them. “I miss you,” he whispers again. Baelor reaches over, placing a hand on the back of his neck, a gesture so familiar it nearly breaks him. “I know,” his father says gently. Valarr closes his eyes, feeling the steady, comforting touch. For a moment, he is a boy again, safe, loved and whole. Then Baelor’s voice whispers softly, “But you cannot stay here.” Valarr frowns. “What?” His father looks at him, his eyes serious and urgent. “You have to fight.” The words hit him like a blow. “You have a wife. You have children. They need you,” Baelor continues. Something twists painfully inside Valarr.. Alysanne, Vaella, oh his little girl. The image of her laughing in the gardens flashes through his mind. Then a terrible fear grips him.. what if he can’t get back to them? “What if—”
“You will,” his father repeats with unwavering certainty. “They are waiting for you.” Valarr’s vision blurs, tears blurring his sight. “I don’t want to leave them.” “You won’t,” Baelor promises instantly. “But you must fight.” His eyes soften. “So fight.” Then slowly, Baelor rises. Valarr looks up, confusion and alarm in his eyes. “Where are you going?” His father’s smile lingers faintly and loving. “We won’t see each other again for a while,” he says softly. Fear crashes over Valarr. “No,” he whispers, desperate. “No.” Baelor’s smile remains, sad now, proud, full of love. “You’ll be alright.” Valarr rises quickly, heart pounding. “Stay,” he pleads, voice cracking like a child’s. “Please.” Tears spill freely now. Baelor reaches up, gently touching his cheek, a fleeting, almost insignificant gesture that feels like everything. “I love you, my boy,” he whispers. Then, with one last look, he turns and begins to walk away. Valarr immediately follows, heart racing. The path ahead stretches endlessly. Baelor’s figure grows more distant with every step. No—“No!” he calls out, rushing after him. But the distance only widens. The gardens blur, the sunlight fades, and reality fractures, until suddenly, Valarr’s eyes snap open. Pain explodes through his chest, a harsh gasp tearing from his lungs. “Prince Valarr.” “My prince—” “Easy.” The room spins wildly, everything feeling wrong.. too bright, too loud, too hot. He blinks rapidly, disoriented. The effort of breathing exhausts him. Someone presses a cup into his hand. The maester is speaking, urging him to stay calm, to rest, to drink. Valarr barely registers it. Because his father is gone again, and the grief hits anew, tearing through him with fresh, raw pain. Slowly, he sinks back into the pillows, every muscle aching, every bone heavy. The bitter taste of medicine fills his mouth, and he swallows it anyway. The room remains hazy, distant, unreal. His eyelids feel impossibly heavy. And as the maester’s voice fades into the background, Valarr’s only thought remains.. Alysanne. The name escapes him as a whisper, a prayer, a desperate plea, before his eyes close once more, surrendering to exhaustion.
_____
Alysannes POV
Your thoughts remain tangled with Matarys as you leave his chambers, his promise echoing relentlessly in your mind with every step you take along the corridor. I swear it. I would die before allowing harm to come to her. You had believed him. Gods, you still do. Yet somehow, that promise does not ease the fear twisting inside your chest. If anything, it makes it feel more real.. the weight of that vow pressing down harder because you asked someone to swear such a thing. You close your eyes briefly, trying to banish the dark thoughts. No. You refuse to think like that. Valarr is alive. He is fighting. He will recover. He has to. Your hand unconsciously settles against your stomach, for Vaella, for this child, for all of you. The corridor ahead is unusually busy, servants rushing past in hurried steps, carrying bowls of steaming water, fresh linens, bundles of herbs, bottles whose contents you cannot guess. Every face you pass wears the same grave, hurried, exhausted expression. You round the next corner and suddenly stop. There, standing in the shadows, is the maester.. Valarr’s maester. He emerges from another passage with two apprentices behind him, quietly speaking as he scans a parchment in his hand. For a heartbeat, relief floods through you— then confusion, then burning anger. Hot and immediate. “What are you doing here?” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. The maester looks up, startled. “My lady—” “No,” you cut him off, stepping toward him without hesitation. “No, what are you doing here? You should be with my husband.” The apprentices exchange nervous glances. The maester dismisses them with a subtle nod, then turns his full attention to you. “My lady—” “You told me he could not have visitors because every moment mattered. You told me his condition was dangerous.” “It is,” he replies softly. “Then why are you standing in this corridor?” His face shifts into tiredness. “My lady,” he says quietly, “I have just come from His Grace.” The words hit you like a blow. “His Grace?”
Everything inside you stills. Your anger evaporates so instantly that it leaves you dizzy. “The king?” The maester inclines his head. “His Grace has also fallen ill.” You stare, voice barely a whisper. “No.” “I am afraid so.” The corridor suddenly feels much colder. You blink, trying to understand, trying to fit the pieces together. Baelor. Valarr. Now— “The king?” Your voice is fragile, uncertain. The maester nods once. “The illness has spread more quickly than we hoped.” You cannot seem to find your breath. “Is… is he very ill?” The maester hesitates, and that hesitation tells you everything. “He is gravely ill.” Your vision blurs. For a moment, all you hear is the pounding of your own heart. Baelor is dead. Valarr is fighting for his life. Now the king. It feels impossible, as if the gods have decided to tear your family apart piece by piece. “The coming night will be critical,” the maester’s voice feels distant, echoing from far away. “I cannot honestly say whether His Grace will survive until morning.” Your knees nearly give way, but you catch yourself against the cold stone wall. The maester steps forward immediately. “My lady—” You barely hear him. If the king dies— Valarr becomes— No. You squeeze your eyes shut, desperate to block out the terrible image. That is not what matters. Not now. Not while he lies feverish somewhere else in this castle. What if… your stomach twists violently. What if this illness is taking everyone? The names circle endlessly inside your mind, spinning faster and faster until you cannot remember how to breathe. The maester’s hand is gentle but firm on your elbow. “My lady.” You open your eyes and they burn. The anger that carried you just moments ago has vanished, replaced by raw, overwhelming fear.
You look at the old man and notice the lines beneath his eyes, the exhaustion etched into his face, the burden he bears. Suddenly, he is no longer the man keeping you from your husband. He is simply the man trying to save him. Your voice trembles, fragile and pleading. “Please.” The single word nearly breaks. The maester says nothing, waiting patiently. You lower your head, struggling to compose yourself. When you speak again, tears slip down your cheeks unbidden. “Please, save him.” The corridor falls into complete silence. “I know you cannot promise me anything.” Your voice shakes uncontrollably, almost unrecognizable. “I know that.” You draw an uneven breath. “But please… he has a little girl.” The words catch painfully in your throat. “She adores him.” Another tear slips free. “And… and he’s going to be a father again.” The maester blinks, clearly surprised, but you hardly notice. “And I need him” A sob escapes you, so small and broken. The old man’s expression softens with such profound sadness that it nearly undoes you completely. “My lady…” “He has to come home.” You are crying openly now. “I cannot…” The words refuse to come. “I cannot lose him.” The maester is silent for a long moment, then bows his head. “I have served the royal family for thirty-two years.” His voice is quiet, steady. “I have delivered princes into this world and I have buried them. I have never ceased fighting for any one of them.” His eyes meet yours. “And I shall not cease fighting for Prince Valarr.” Tears fill your eyes anew. “I give you my word that every remedy known to me is being used.”
______
Valarrs POV
The darkness comes first, the sort that presses against his chest until breathing itself becomes an effort, until the simple act of drawing air feels like pushing against something that does not want to move. Then voices come, familiar and distant all at once, impossible to make out no matter how hard he strains toward them, drifting farther away with every step he takes as though the dream itself is determined to keep them just beyond his reach. The world around him slowly begins to take shape — stone walls, tall windows, the familiar geometry of a solar he recognises without being able to say how, and then recognition settles through him like cold water, quiet and certain and wrong. Alysanne's chambers. A few years ago, before him, before any of this, the room exactly as it must have been in some time he was never present for, and his stomach tightens without warning, some deep instinct already understanding what his conscious mind has not yet caught up to. "No." The word leaves him before he understands why. The room feels wrong, cold in a way that has nothing to do with the temperature, too quiet in the particular way of things about to break. Then he sees her — Alysanne, standing near the window a few years younger than she is now, dressed in a pale green gown with her hands clasped tightly before her as though trying to make herself smaller, and his heart lurches immediately and violently in his chest.
"Alysanne." She does not look up. She cannot hear him. His feet begin moving without instruction, carrying him forward with a desperate urgency he cannot entirely name, and he barely reaches the middle of the room before something stops him — not physically, not a wall or a door or anything he can name, but as though the air itself has simply become solid, the space between him and her transformed into something immovable and absolute. He pushes harder, throws his weight against it, and nothing happens, his legs refusing to carry him a single step farther while confusion bleeds rapidly and completely into panic. "No." His voice echoes uselessly through the chamber, and she still does not hear him, still does not turn. Another figure enters, and Valarr feels the blood drain from his face before he has even fully registered who it is — Aerion, and even in dreams the sight of his cousin inspires the same cold and bone-deep unease that had always accompanied his presence in waking life. Aerion says something, and Valarr cannot hear the words, only the tone, sharp and cruel in the particular way that Aerion had always excelled at, the kind of cruelty that required no raised voice, that dressed itself in pleasantness and landed all the harder for it. Alysanne answers quietly, her chin still lifted despite everything, still holding herself with a composure that breaks his heart because he knows exactly how much it costs her, how much it had always cost her. She had always been brave, even when she was frightened. Gods, she had always been brave. Aerion steps closer, too close, far too close, and Valarr strains against whatever invisible force holds him rooted in place, throwing himself forward with everything he has and achieving nothing, not a single step gained, the distance between them unchanged and unchangeable. "Aerion." The name tears from his throat, but neither of them reacts, neither of them even flinches, and then Aerion reaches for Alysanne's wrist, too roughly, and she flinches away from the contact with a small instinctive motion that sends Valarr's pulse pounding so hard he can feel it in his skull.
"No!" Aerion says something else, his mouth twisting into the familiar smile that Valarr had always hated, the one that meant nothing good was coming, and then his hand strikes her, and the sound cracks through the room with a sharpness that seems to stop time entirely. Alysanne stumbles sideways, one hand rising instinctively toward her cheek, and Valarr stops breathing. "No!" The word is barely air. Aerion grabs her again, this time by the arm and hard enough that she winces, and Valarr throws himself forward against the invisible barrier with everything he has, slamming against it again and again and again until his hands are pounding against empty air and his voice is breaking apart around her name. "Alysanne!" She cannot hear him. She never even turns. Aerion shoves her backward and she catches herself against the edge of a table before she can fall, and Valarr feels something inside him begin to splinter in a way that has nothing to do with the dream. "No!" He hits the unseen wall with both fists, pain shooting through his hands in bright white flares that he does not care about, cannot care about. "Leave her alone!" Nothing. His voice disappears into the room as though it had never existed at all, meaningless and worthless, and Aerion leans close enough to speak directly into Alysanne's ear while she closes her eyes — not crying, not pleading, simply enduring, simply surviving it the way she had learned to survive things before he ever knew her, and Valarr cannot bear it.
Because this had happened. Perhaps not exactly like this, perhaps not precisely in this room at this hour with these words he cannot hear, but enough of it, enough that she had once stood before him and quietly admitted the truth of what Aerion had done to her, and enough that he had promised her, with every certainty he possessed, that no one would ever hurt her again. The memory crashes into him like a wave, the promise and the weight of it, his promise, made in full sincerity and full belief that he could keep it and he cannot even keep it here, cannot reach her even here in the privacy of his own dreaming, his fists still striking the invisible barrier until his shoulders ache from the effort and his throat burns raw from shouting her name. "Alysanne!" His voice is desperate now, stripped of everything except need. "Please!" Nothing changes. He cannot reach her. He cannot protect her. He cannot stop any of it, and the room begins to blur around the edges while Aerion's laughter grows strangely distant, and everything feels as though it is slipping through his fingers, his father, his wife, his daughter, his kingdom, everything, all of it beyond his reach and always beyond his reach no matter how hard he grasps. "No!" The scream tears itself from somewhere deep inside his chest, from somewhere that had nothing left to give, and the world shatters.
Valarr jerks violently upright, a harsh breath ripping from his lungs as the chamber spins around him and his heart pounds so violently that he thinks it might break through his ribs, the force of it almost nauseating. For several long moments he does not know where he is, the dream clinging stubbornly to him, refusing to release its grip, but he can still hear himself shouting, still see Alysanne's face in that pale green gown, still feel the helplessness pressing down against his chest like a physical weight.
"My—" His voice gives out immediately, scraped raw, and the room is dark around him, though not the darkness of full night — the faintest grey light filters through the curtains at the edges, the particular uncertain quality of dawn or something very close to it. A chair scrapes softly beside the bed and a servant rises immediately, one of the older household attendants who had been assigned to remain with him through the night, and Valarr tries again. "My—" He swallows painfully, his throat feeling as though he has swallowed sand, and manages just the single word. "Water." The servant is already reaching for the cup. "Of course, Your Grace." The words barely register. Valarr accepts the cup with trembling hands, the water cool against his lips, and he drinks greedily while some of it spills down his chin, his entire body feeling impossibly heavy in the way that illness makes everything feel, every muscle aching with a deep bone-deep exhaustion that makes even the act of lifting the cup require genuine effort. The servant steadies it gently until he has finished, then takes it back with quiet efficiency.
"There," the man says, his voice remaining soft and careful. "You should rest, Your Grace."
Valarr closes his eyes briefly. His head sinks back against the pillows as the effort of sitting upright finishes exhausting him completely, and he stares blankly upward toward the canopy above the bed while fragments of the dream continue refusing to disappear.. Alysanne, Aerion, his father, Vaella, one after another in no particular order, cycling through the dim edges of his consciousness with a persistence that exhaustion alone cannot quiet. He exhales slowly, his eyelids growing heavy once more, and only one thought remains clear enough to speak, surfacing through everything else with a gentleness that the dream had not possessed. "Alysanne..." The name escapes him as little more than a whisper, a quiet plea released into the dim and uncertain light of morning, and then, too weak to fight the exhaustion any longer, he lets his eyes fall closed once again.
_____
Alysannes POV
The world changes before breakfast with three quiet knocks upon the nursery door, soft and deliberate but somehow carrying more weight than any fanfare ever could. You already know, before the nurse opens it, before the messenger lowers himself to one knee on the threshold, before he has even drawn breath to speak. You know in the way that some things make themselves felt before they can be said, settling into the body as a kind of cold certainty that precedes understanding entirely. "The king passed peacefully during the night, My—" He falters, only for a heartbeat, the title dying half-formed on his tongue before he corrects himself. "Your Grace." The title seems to echo through the nursery long after he has finished speaking. Your Grace. Queen — and the word settles upon your shoulders with a weight that is entirely real, even as it feels strangely distant, as though it belongs to someone else entirely, to a woman standing somewhere just behind you whom you have not yet had the chance to become. You incline your head, dismiss the messenger quietly, and remain standing exactly where you are long after the door has drawn closed behind him. The silence that follows is unlike any you have ever known. King Daeron is dead. Prince Baelor is dead. And somewhere else in this castle, your husband lies burning with fever, entirely unaware that while he slept, the realm quietly placed a crown upon his head. "Your Grace?" The nurse's voice is gentle and you open your eyes again to find that Vaella is awake, has apparently been awake for some time, sitting happily amongst her blankets in her cradle and watching the morning unfold around her with all the cheerful and uncomplicated curiosity that only a child too young to understand sorrow can possess. The sight almost undoes you completely. You cross the room without thinking, and the moment you lift her into your arms she lets out a delighted little laugh before reaching both hands immediately toward your face with the focused determination of someone who has just discovered the greatest treasure in all the Seven Kingdoms, her tiny fingers disappearing into the loose waves of your hair almost before you have properly settled her against you.
"There you are," you whisper, your voice barely more than breath. "I was wondering when you would wake." Vaella responds by tugging enthusiastically, and you laugh despite yourself, despite everything, despite the weight of the last several minutes still pressing heavily against your sternum. "There is no need to declare victory quite so fiercely," you tell her, and she grins at you with an expression so bright and so wonderfully innocent that it makes the tears come before you are anywhere near prepared for them. You settle into the chair beside the window, drawing her close against your chest until her head rests comfortably beneath your chin, and for several long moments you simply hold her while she plays absently with one of the braids that has escaped its pins overnight, the nurse quietly resuming her work on the other side of the room in the way of someone who understands that you need silence and is kind enough to provide it without being asked. Your gaze never leaves your daughter. Everyone tells you she looks like you — Baelor had said it countless times, smiling as he said it, that she has your mother's eyes and your smile and is the very image of you — and perhaps they are right, perhaps she does, but all you can see this morning is Valarr, not in the shape of her face or even in the colour of her eyes, but in the small and specific things that no one else would think to notice. The way one corner of her mouth lifts ever so slightly before a full smile arrives, the determined little crease that appears between her brows whenever something captures her attention, the curious particular tilt of her head when she is listening to something she does not yet understand. She has his expressions, his mannerisms, pieces of him scattered through every small movement she makes as though he has left traces of himself in her without meaning to.
You smile despite the tears that are already gathering, your thumb brushing gently across her cheek. "There it is," you say softly. "I wondered where your father had hidden himself." Vaella blinks up at you and then laughs for no reason you can possibly discern, the sound filling the nursery with a brightness so complete and so careless that it makes your tears sting sharper. "You are so beautiful," you tell her, the words coming quietly and without ceremony. "So very, very beautiful." She answers by patting your cheek with one tiny hand, entirely serious about it, as though she has recognised that comfort is required and has decided to provide it in the manner she considers most appropriate, and gods, the gesture undoes you more thoroughly than anything else has managed to yet. You kiss her forehead, then again, then once more, pressing your lips to her soft skin as though you can transfer something essential through the contact. "I need you to grow into the kindest princess this realm has ever known," you tell her, your voice trembling only slightly around the edges of the words. She grabs hold of your sleeve in response, apparently entirely satisfied with this arrangement, and a watery laugh escapes you before you can stop it. "I think your father would like that."
You fall silent, and the words linger in the room around you for a moment — your father — and you close your eyes briefly before something tightens inside you and forces them open again. No. Not would. Will. He will like that, because he has to, because he simply has to, because the alternative is a thought you are not capable of surviving this morning. Your hand drifts unconsciously toward your stomach, the movement so automatic you do not notice it until it has already happened, the soft curve beneath your gown. "You are going to be a wonderful sister," you say, so quietly the words are barely audible even in the stillness of the nursery. Another tear escapes before you can catch it, and you wipe it quickly away before it can fall upon Vaella's hair. She studies you for a moment with surprising seriousness, the way she sometimes does when she is attempting to understand something that is just beyond her, and then she reaches both hands toward your face again, but this time she does not pull your hair, does not grab or tug, only rests her tiny fingers clumsily and gently against your cheek in a gesture that is entirely accidental and yet feels, in this moment, astonishingly like comfort.
Fresh tears gather immediately. "Oh, my sweet girl," you whisper, and your voice breaks cleanly in the middle of it. "I love you more than I thought it was possible to love another person." You hold her just a little tighter, enough to reassure yourself that she is truly here and warm and safe and alive and breathing steadily against your chest. "If there ever comes a day when you cannot remember this moment," you say, the words leaving your mouth before you have consciously decided to say them, "I hope you will always know that your father and I loved you with every piece of ourselves." The nurse looks up sharply from across the room, you notice and you offer her a small apologetic smile. "I did not mean—" Your voice fades, because perhaps you did mean it, not as a farewell, but as something you need your daughter to carry with her regardless of what the coming days bring, something certain and true that no amount of uncertainty can take away from her.
Vaella yawns then, a great dramatic thing that scrunches her entire face and makes you smile despite the tears still resting on your cheeks, and you kiss the top of her head and simply sit there for a long while, memorising her with the careful and deliberate attention of someone who understands the value of what they are looking at the soft curve of her cheeks, the tiny freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose, the impossibly pale strands of silver-gold hair, the warmth of her small body settled so trustingly against yours, every detail and every breath and every heartbeat, until at last something inside you settles. You had spent the better part of two days turning it over in your mind, what was right, what was sensible, what was safe, weighing every warning the maesters had pressed upon you against every fear that had kept you lying awake and staring at the ceiling through the long hours of the night, but the debate is over now, resolved not by logic or argument but by something quieter and more absolute, the kind of knowing that arrives when you have finally stopped fighting it. You kiss Vaella's forehead one last time before carefully placing her into the nurse's waiting arms, your eyes lingering on your daughter for just a moment longer than necessary. "Watch over her for me," you say quietly. "There is somewhere I need to go."
No one in the room asks where, because they already know the answer as surely as you do, and so you smooth your skirts with hands that are not entirely steady and leave the nursery with your mind finally made up, whatever the cost, whatever the maesters say and whatever caution demands of you. You are going to your husband.
_____
The corridor outside your husband's chambers is silent in a way that feels deliberate, the kind of quiet that has weight and intention behind it, that settles against the skin like cold air and refuses to be ignored. The guards posted outside the door bow the moment they see you approaching, yet neither man moves to open it. You stop before the heavy wooden door and for one heartbeat you simply stare at it, aware of nothing except the fact that he is in there, only a few feet away, after days of hearing his name spoken only in whispers, after days of being told in careful and apologetic voices that you could not see him, after days of lying awake in the dark and wondering whether every breath he drew might be his last. You lift your hand, and before your fingers even reach the handle the door opens from the other side, the maester stepping out with the distracted urgency of a man who has somewhere else to be and almost walking straight into you as a result.
"Your Grace." He inclines his head immediately, recovering his composure with the practised ease of someone who has spent a lifetime navigating unexpected situations, but the exhaustion lining his face is deeper than it was yesterday, carved into the corners of his eyes and the set of his mouth in a way that cannot be hidden, his chain hanging crookedly across his robes and dark circles sitting beneath his eyes as though sleep has become a luxury he has long since stopped expecting. You do not return the greeting. "I am here to see my husband."
The maester's shoulders visibly tense, a small and involuntary movement that tells you everything you need to know about how this conversation is going to go before it has properly begun. "My queen..." The title still feels foreign against your ears, strange in the particular way of things that are true before you have had time to understand them, but you barely notice it. "...I must ask you not to enter." Your jaw tightens. "The fever remains dangerously high and the illness is extremely contagious."
"I know."
"You are carrying another child." Your breath catches, only for the briefest moment, a small and involuntary pause that you cannot prevent, and then it steadies again. "I know."
The old man's expression shifts into something that is almost pleading, the professional detachment giving way to something more personal and more urgent. "If you enter that room, you knowingly place yourself in danger."
"So be it."
"My queen—"
"No." The word cuts through the corridor before he can continue, clean and absolute, and you take one measured step closer to him as you speak. "I have listened to every warning you have given me," you say, moving forward again with a deliberateness that makes him instinctively hold his ground. "I have remained away because you told me it was necessary. I have cried in another chamber while my husband lay here alone because you told me it was the only way to protect him, to protect my daughter, and to protect the child I carry." The maester lowers his eyes, and you let the silence hold for a moment before continuing, your voice dropping lower and becoming very quiet. "And now King Daeron is dead." The words seem almost impossible to say aloud, hanging in the air of the corridor with a weight entirely disproportionate to the few syllables they require. "My husband became king without anyone he loves beside him," you continue, and your voice trembles slightly around the edges of it, a tremor you cannot entirely suppress. "He does not know." The maester says nothing, because there is nothing to say, no argument or counterpoint available to him that would not be an insult to you both, and you swallow hard against the tightness in your throat. "I will not allow him to die believing I abandoned him."
"My queen," he says, and his voice is gentle now rather than official, the voice of a man who genuinely cares rather than one performing his duty. "So many people depend upon you now."
"So many people depend upon him." The answer comes immediately, without hesitation, and the maester's expression softens further at it.
"You are the queen."
"I am his wife!“ The words echo through the corridor with a firmness and a certainty that surprises even you slightly, the clarity of them landing in the space between you like something immovable. Before anything else. You watch the old man close his eyes briefly, searching perhaps for another argument, for some angle he has not yet tried, and when he opens them again there is a sadness in them that has nothing to do with the argument he is making and everything to do with the one he is losing.
"My duty is to preserve life."
"And mine is to stand beside my husband." Another silence settles between you, longer and heavier than the ones before it, and then the maester steps sideways — not enough for you to pass, just enough to make his meaning painfully clear. "I cannot permit this." Something inside you stills entirely in that moment, the fear and the grief and the uncertainty that have been moving through you like weather these past several days suddenly giving way all at once to a resolve so absolute and so complete that it feels almost like calm. When you speak again your voice is steady, almost frighteningly so, stripped of everything except certainty. "There is nothing you can do to stop me." The maester blinks.
"I am walking through that door," you continue, holding his gaze without wavering. "You may step aside willingly, or I shall have the Kingsguard move you aside." The words hang in the air between you, and at the end of the corridor the two guards straighten instinctively, the shift in their posture small but unmistakable. The maester stares at you with an expression of complete and genuine astonishment, because you have never spoken to him like this, never once in all the years he has known you, and if you are honest you never imagined you would, yet here you stand, not trembling, not wavering, with nothing left in you that resembles uncertainty. "I am done asking permission."
The old man studies your face for a long moment with the thoroughness of someone searching very carefully for something specific.. hesitation, perhaps, or the small signs of a resolve that has not yet fully set, anything that might suggest you can still be persuaded if he finds the right words and he finds nothing, because there is nothing left to find. You made your decision the moment you walked out of the nursery and you made it with every part of yourself, and he sees it in your face as clearly as you know he does, because his shoulders sag ever so slightly beneath the weight of it. "My queen." The words come almost as a whisper now. "If you enter, there is every chance you will fall ill."
"I know."
"If you fall ill—" His eyes drift, briefly and with great care, toward your abdomen, and the gesture is so deliberate and so gentle that it costs him something to make it. "you endanger not only yourself."
You follow his gaze downward, and your hand rises without conscious thought to rest over the soft curve of your stomach, still hidden beneath the layers of your gown, still your secret in every room except this corridor, and a heartbeat passes, and then another, and a tear slips quietly down your cheek before you can prevent it. "I have thought of nothing else," you say, and your voice breaks on the words, cleanly and without warning. "Every hour." Another tear follows the first. "I know exactly what I am risking." You draw an unsteady breath, steadying yourself against the rawness of it. "But if the gods decide to take him from me—" Your throat tightens so painfully that the rest of the sentence requires genuine effort to finish. "—then they will not also take away my chance to tell him that I love him." The corridor is utterly silent in the wake of it, so silent that you can hear the distant sound of the castle beginning its morning beyond the walls, and even the guards have lowered their eyes with the quiet respect of men who understand they are witnessing something private. The maester remains motionless for a long moment, and then, slowly he steps aside, not because he agrees and not because he believes it is wise, but because he has finally arrived at the understanding that there is no force in the Seven Kingdoms capable of keeping a wife from her husband now, and that continuing to stand in your way would be an act of cruelty he is not capable of.
You move toward the door, and his quiet voice stops you one final time. "If you are determined to do this—" You pause, your hand already on the door, and turn to look at him. The old man's eyes glisten with exhaustion in the corridor light, raw and genuine. "then allow me to tell you one thing." You wait.
"When you leave this room, burn every gown you wear inside it," he says, his voice low and careful, measuring each instruction with the weight it deserves. "Bathe immediately." A pause. "And for several days—" His voice falters slightly around the last of it, catching on something he does not want to say. „Please do not hold Princess Vaella." The words strike harder than any warning he has given before, landing somewhere deep and soft in the centre of you, and your eyes close for a moment beneath the force of it before you open them again and nod once, the movement small and steady. "I understand." The maester bows his head. "So may the Seven watch over you, Your Grace." You draw one final breath, let it steady you from the inside out, and then without another word you cross the threshold into your husband's chamber and quietly close the door behind you.
____
The door closes softly behind you, and for a moment nobody speaks, the young servant who had been sitting beside the hearth rising immediately the instant she notices you, her eyes widening slightly before she drops into a curtsy so deep you almost ask her to stand again. "My queen." The title barely reaches you, because your eyes have already found him.
The bed stands beneath the windows, where the curtains have been drawn open just enough to allow the pale light to filter into the chamber in long and careful bands, and Valarr lies exactly where you imagined he would and yet somehow, despite all the imagining you have done over the past two days, nothing could have prepared you for the reality of it. Your breath catches painfully in your throat. Gods. He looks so tired, exhausted in a way that goes deeper than sleep, as though the fever has stolen every ounce of strength from him and left only the shell of the man you love behind, the faint flush of illness still lingering across his cheeks while the rest of his face has grown noticeably paler than usual. His breathing is slow and even, and you close your eyes for one brief moment in wordless gratitude to whatever gods are listening. You stand perfectly still, unable to make yourself move, caught between the desperate need to be closer to him and the strange fear that crossing the remaining distance might somehow break the moment entirely. Because this is Valarr, your husband, the man who only days ago had been laughing beside a rain-soaked pavilion because you insisted on wrapping him in three blankets, who had ridden beside your carriage every few hours simply to ask whether you and Vaella were comfortable, who had always kissed your forehead before leaving your chambers and now he looks as though the simple act of sleeping has exhausted him, and your eyes begin to sting in a way you had expressly promised yourself they would not. No. You promised yourself you would not cry, not in front of him, not here, and you press the feeling down as firmly as you can manage. The servant clears her throat quietly. "My queen?" You turn slightly toward her, her face young and earnest and carefully composed. "There is fresh water should His Grace wake," she says, and you nod, and then she hesitates before adding. "The fever has lessened somewhat since yesterday." The words are small, such a small and careful sentence, and yet the hope they carry settles immediately inside your chest with a warmth entirely disproportionate to their size. "The maester believes that is encouraging." You close your eyes briefly. "Thank you."
The girl curtsies again. "I shall wait outside, should Your Grace require anything,"
"You have been with him?" you ask.
„Since this morning. Another servant has watched him through the night.“
"And he has not been alone?"
The servant shakes her head at once, quickly and with complete certainty. "Never, Your Grace." Relief moves through you, small but entirely real, and you find a faint smile for her despite everything. "Thank you for taking care of him," you say as she nods and then she slips from the chamber with the quiet efficiency of someone who understands that you need the room to yourself, drawing the door closed behind her until only you and Valarr remain. Silence settles once more, and you finally allow yourself to move, each step feeling strangely hesitant as you cross the room toward him, as though you are afraid the moment will dissolve if you approach too quickly, as though it is made of something too fragile to survive contact with reality. When you reach the bedside you simply stand there for a long moment, looking at him, and the thought arrives with such unexpected force that it almost steals your breath entirely. Gods, he truly is beautiful, even now, even ill, even pale and spent and entirely unaware of your presence, beautiful in every familiar particular that you have spent years learning without meaning to. Your gaze moves over the curve of his jaw, the faint line between his brows that always appears when he is thinking too hard, his eyelashes resting against his cheeks, the scar near his temple that he earned as a boy and still insists was a glorious battle despite the fact that everyone who was present at the time knows perfectly well he had simply fallen from a horse. A tiny and entirely involuntary smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. Idiot. You love him so much, more than you have ever found the words to say properly, and the knowledge of it sits in the centre of your chest like something permanent and unshakeable, impervious to fever and distance and days spent crying in another chamber. Your hand trembles as you slowly reach toward him, and for just a heartbeat you hesitate, the maester's warnings echoing clearly through your mind — the illness is highly contagious, you endanger yourself, you endanger the child — and you close your eyes against them, and then gently brush your fingers through his hair. Soft, and warm, and real, and a sob catches in your throat before you can stop it.
"I have been looking for you." you whisper, your voice scarcely louder than the silence around it. Fresh tears spill down your cheeks, and you do not try to stop them. You had imagined this moment a hundred different ways over the past two days, had rehearsed it in the small hours of the night when sleep refused to come, had pictured it from every possible angle and none of it had prepared you for how terribly ordinary he looks, how entirely free of drama, how simply and quietly human. There is no chaos surrounding him, no blood, no dramatic struggle for breath, only your husband sleeping in a beam of pale morning light, utterly spent, and the sight somehow hurts more than any of the versions you had imagined, more than anything dramatic could have, because it makes the danger feel not distant and abstract but close and real and entirely possible. You lower yourself carefully into the chair beside his bed and let your fingers remain in his hair, smoothing it slowly back from his forehead the way he always absent-mindedly asks you to when he has been reading for too long and the tension has settled behind his eyes. "I am sorry," you say, and the apology leaves you before you have fully understood why you are making it. "I am sorry I stayed away." Another tear falls, tracing a warm and familiar path down your cheek. "I know why I did, and I know everyone was trying to protect us," your voice trembling around the edges of the words, "but I hated every moment of it. I hated knowing you were here alone." You look at his sleeping face, searching it for something you cannot quite name. "You became king," you say, and the words sound almost absurd in the quiet of the room, enormous and impossible and strangely small all at once. "So many people have spent years preparing you for that moment," and despite everything, despite the tears still falling freely, a watery laugh escapes you, "and you slept through it."
The corner of your mouth lifts helplessly. Of all the kings in the history of Westeros, yours had managed to become one while unconscious, which is so entirely and specifically Valarr that it almost breaks your heart all over again with how much you love him for it. The smile fades almost as quickly as it came. "I wish you had been awake," you say softly, your thumb brushing with great gentleness across his temple. "I wish I could have been beside you." Silence fills the room again in the wake of it, and outside the castle continues with itself — footsteps somewhere, voices too muffled to make out, a door closing somewhere down a distant corridor, life proceeding with cheerful indifference to what is happening in this room — while inside, time seems to have slowed to something barely perceptible, measured only in the steady rise and fall of his chest. You carefully take his hand into yours, and it feels warmer than you expected, stronger than you feared, still undeniably and entirely his. "You are going to wake up." The certainty in your own voice surprises you, arriving from somewhere deeper than conscious thought. "You are going to wake up, because I refuse to become a queen without you beside me, and because Vaella keeps looking for you every time the nursery door opens.“ Your smile returns, small and fragile and entirely real. "She misses her father." A long silence follows, and you simply sit there in it, holding his hand as though you might anchor him to this world by refusing to let go, as though the warmth of your fingers wrapped around his might be enough to keep him here through sheer insistence. "I miss my husband," you say, barely audible even in the stillness. "So please" Your forehead comes to rest lightly against the back of his hand, the skin warm beneath your brow, real and present and alive. "come back to us."
_____
Valarrs POV
The dream changes again and with it comes an absence so complete that it takes him a moment to understand what is missing, there is no fever, no pain, no fear, only silence, and the silence itself is different from the one he has been living inside, cleaner and older and somehow familiar in a way that pulls at something deep beneath conscious thought. Valarr stands in the corner of a room he has not seen in decades, and for a long moment he simply looks around, letting recognition come at its own pace, the carved dragon upon the wardrobe, slightly crooked on its mount as it always was, the faded tapestry his father had insisted should remain because his mother liked it, the little wooden horse on the shelf near the window with one ear missing since a long-forgotten afternoon that he cannot now recall the details of. The recognition settles over him slowly, like something warming from the outside in. Summerhall. His childhood chambers, unchanged in every particular, preserved with the peculiar exactness that only dreams can manage, and the realisation is almost enough to make him smile. Then he notices the bed, and the smile does not quite arrive. A small figure lies beneath the blankets, dark hair spilling across the pillow in loose and careless waves, a boy no older than six with his cheeks still round with the particular softness of early childhood and his hands barely visible above the folded edge of the blanket where he clutches it beneath his chin. Valarr freezes, his mind working through what he is seeing with a slowness that feels like resistance, as though some part of him already knows and is not entirely certain it is ready to accept it. It is himself.
He stares at the child for a long moment, at the impossible smallness of him, at the face that is his own face stripped of every year that has passed since, and something catches unexpectedly in his chest — not pain exactly, but something adjacent to it, something quiet and aching and difficult to name. He had forgotten, he realises, with a clarity that surprises him. Forgotten that once, before duty and grief and crowns and expectations and all the accumulated weight of what he has become, he had simply been someone's little boy, small enough to fit in a single bed and innocent enough to sleep peacefully in it. The door opens, and he already knows who it is before he turns. His mother, Jena, enters quietly, carrying a book tucked beneath one arm with the ease of someone who has made this same journey many times before, and she smiles the moment she sees the child in the bed, a smile so warm and so unguarded that it seems to soften the entire room around it, the kind of smile that belongs only to private moments, to rooms where nobody is watching.
"There you are," she says, and her voice carries the same warmth as the smile, the particular quality of it settling over everything like the room has exhaled. "I feared you had fallen asleep without me."
The little boy immediately pushes himself upright against the pillows with the indignant energy of someone who has been waiting very patiently and wishes this to be known. "I waited."
"I can see that," she says, crossing the room and settling onto the edge of the bed with the effortless familiarity of someone who has done this so many times that the movement has become entirely her own. Valarr watches from the shadows, and he wants to move, wants to speak, wants to tell her — gods, anything, everything, all the things he has never had the chance to say and all the things he had assumed he would eventually say and then one day discovered he no longer could, but he cannot, and neither of them knows he is there, and the wanting sits in his chest without anywhere to go. His mother opens the book, smoothing the pages open with one careful hand. "Now then," she says, and smiles. "Where did we leave our brave knight?"
The little boy thinks very hard, his small face scrunching with the effort of it. "With the dragon."
"Ah," she says, nodding with an approving gravity entirely proportionate to the importance of the matter. "The dragon." And she begins to read. Valarr scarcely hears the story itself, his attention fixed entirely on her rather than on the words she is speaking. He watches the gentle way she turns each page, careful not to disturb the child's attention, the warmth that moves through her expression whenever the boy interrupts with a question, the patience in every answer she gives, unhurried and genuine and utterly without impatience. She had always been like that, he thinks, and the thought carries a weight he had not expected, because he had forgotten, or perhaps he had simply forgotten enough of it that remembering now hurts in a way that simple forgetting never could. The story continues, and the little boy slowly curls farther beneath the blankets as it does, his small body settling deeper into the warmth of them while his eyelids begin their inevitable downward drift. Jena notices immediately, the way she always had noticed everything, and closes the book softly before the page has quite finished. "So," she says. "Our knight grows tired."
"I'm not tired," the boy says, with the absolute and unshakeable conviction of someone who believes this completely.
Valarr smiles despite himself, because some things apparently do not change, not even across the distance of decades. His mother laughs quietly. "No?"
The little boy shakes his head with great certainty, and then yawns, a truly enormous yawn, entirely involuntary and entirely undermining, the kind that scrunches the whole face and cannot possibly be argued away and she raises one eyebrow with an expression of exquisitely performed surprise. "Oh my dear."
"I was just" Another yawn arrives before the sentence can be finished. "thinking."
"Thinking?"
"Mhm."
"So deeply that you cannot keep your eyes open."
The little boy frowns in protest, and his mother only smiles at him, the argument already won and both of them aware of it, and she sets the book aside before leaning forward very gently and brushing a loose strand of hair away from his forehead, the movement slow and instinctive and entirely practiced, the gesture of a woman who has done this so many times it has become something almost unconscious, her fingertips lingering briefly against the little boy's temple before tracing the soft curve of his cheek with a tenderness so careful and so particular that it seems to belong to its own private language. Valarr feels it. He frowns, his own hand rising instinctively toward his face before he can think about it, reaching for something he cannot name and there is nothing there, of course, nothing beneath his fingers but the familiar planes of his own jaw, and yet the sensation lingers as though it came from somewhere very close and very recent, close enough that it is almost a memory rather than a dream, though he cannot quite make it resolve into anything solid enough to hold. His mother continues stroking the child's cheek, and then, almost absentmindedly, her hand glides downward along his small arm where it rests above the blanket, back and forth, back and forth, slow and rhythmic and effortlessly comforting, and the little boy's breathing grows slower with it, his eyes drifting closed one degree at a time until they stay that way, and Jena smiles with the particular quiet satisfaction of someone who has accomplished something genuinely important. "There," she whispers. "So much better."
Valarr cannot look away from her. The room is so peaceful, so entirely and completely full of love, and he had forgotten this too, not simply that she had loved him, because he had always known that, had carried that knowledge through every year since her death with the tenacity of someone who understood its value, but the texture of it, the specific quality of how safe everything had felt whenever she was near, how entirely the world had seemed to arrange itself into something manageable simply because she was in it. He had not understood how much he had lost until this moment, standing in the corner of a room that no longer exists in quite this form, watching something he can never return to. "I miss you." The words escape him before he realizes he has spoken, quiet and unadorned and entirely honest, and neither of them hears him, because of course they don't, and Jena continues smoothing the child's hair with the same unhurried tenderness as before, entirely unaware of the man watching her from the shadows.
"I shall always be with you," she whispers, so softly that perhaps she intends only the sleeping boy to hear it, or perhaps no one at all, the words offered simply into the quiet of the room because they are true and because the truth of them is worth saying regardless of who receives it. "Even when you cannot see me." A strange ache settles through Valarr entirely, deep and spreading and not entirely unpleasant, something between grief and comfort that has no clean name, and he takes an uncertain step forward. "Mother." Nothing. Another step, and still nothing, she cannot hear him, cannot feel his presence in the room, and she simply continues stroking the child's face and then his arm, slowly, rhythmically, comfortingly, while Valarr watches and tries to understand why the movement feels so familiar to him now, why the gentle brush of fingertips across a cheek and the careful smoothing of hair back from a forehead carries a quality of recognition that is almost tactile, as though he has felt those hands recently, very recently, in some space between sleeping and waking that he cannot quite locate. The feeling stays with him long after the room itself begins to fade.
_____
The chamber smells faintly of lavender, a scent you have always associated with comfort in the way that certain things become inseparable from the feelings they were present for, and today it merely reminds you of everything you cannot have, the comfort remaining in the smell while the reality of the morning makes it feel like a small and particular cruelty. The fire has already been lit, not because the morning is cold but because another gown must be burned, another pair of slippers, another set of stockings, everything that entered your husband's sickroom, everything that might still carry the illness on its fibers, everything that might carry it back to Vaella if you were careless enough to allow it. You stand silently in the middle of your chambers while your lady's maid begins loosening the fastenings of your gown, and neither of you speaks, the silence having become its own kind of familiarity over these past few days, as much a part of the morning ritual as the fire and the burning and the careful exchange of one set of clothes for another. She eases the heavy fabric from your shoulders with great care, helping you step free of the skirts without letting them brush against the clean garments waiting nearby, and then she carries the gown to the hearth without a word, and you watch her pause before the fire with the gown held in both hands. She hesitates for just a moment. It had been one of your favorites, a deep forest green, embroidered by the seamstresses in Highgarden in the months before your wedding, a gown you had worn so often and so happily that it had become one of those things you reach for without thinking, something that had felt like yours in a way that went beyond simple ownership. Now she lays it quietly across the growing pile without looking at you, and when she finally speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper. "It seems such a shame." You watch the gown disappear beneath another. "It is only cloth."
She looks at you, her expression carrying something that is not quite disagreement and not quite sorrow but somewhere between the two. "It was beautiful."
"So is my husband." The answer comes before you have time to think about it, arriving with a certainty that surprises even you, and your voice catches on what follows. "If I must burn every gown I own to keep him alive, then I shall ask for more gowns." The maid's eyes soften, and without another word she reaches for the poker, and the fire crackles hungrily as the first sleeve catches, the rich green silk curling dark and then black beneath the flames within moments, and you force yourself to watch it happen rather than look away, because looking away would feel like refusing to acknowledge what this costs you, and you have decided that acknowledging the cost is the only honest way to bear it. A knock sounds softly at the door, and the maid opens it to admit the maester, who enters carrying the same leather satchel he has brought every morning since the day you walked through the door of Valarr's chamber, his arrival so consistent now that the sound of the knock alone is enough to tell you who it will be. He inclines his head. "Your Grace." You return the greeting quietly. "I hope I am not becoming tedious," he says, with the careful lightness of a man who understands that small moments of ordinary conversation are worth something in a room that has too few of them.
"I fear I must disappoint you," you reply, and a faint smile touches the old man's face.
"It is my duty to become tedious," he says, and despite everything, you smile back.
"If you must."
The examination has become almost routine now, familiar enough that you move through it without needing instruction, he rests the back of his hand gently against your forehead, then your neck, asking the same questions he asks every morning in the same careful order, each answer you give either adding to or subtracting from whatever calculation he is running quietly behind his expression. "Have you slept?"
"A little."
"Any chills?"
"No."
"A cough?" You shake your head.
"Any soreness of the throat?"
"No."
He nods thoughtfully and then reaches gently for your wrist to count your pulse, and the room falls silent save for the quiet ticking of the small hourglass resting upon your dressing table, the sound of it absurdly steady against the particular quality of the waiting. Finally, he lets your hand go. "No fever," he says, and the relief that washes across your face is too immediate and too complete to hide. "The pulse remains strong."
"And the baby?" The question leaves your lips before you have even fully realized you are asking it, surfacing from some place beneath conscious thought where it has been sitting quietly since the moment he arrived. The maester smiles gently. "I have no reason for concern." You close your eyes briefly, the gratitude settling through you like warmth. Thank the Seven.
"You must continue as you have been." "I shall." "No contact with Princess Vaella." Your smile disappears immediately, cleanly and without warning. "I know."
"I am aware that this is difficult," he says, with genuine care rather than the rote sympathy of someone performing it. Difficult. The word feels laughably small for what it actually is, a word that belongs to mild inconveniences and minor frustrations, not to this, not to what it costs you every single morning to stay on the right side of a door. "I have not held my daughter in days," you say, and your voice trembles despite everything you do to prevent it. "I know she is only across the corridor," you continue, glancing toward the adjoining rooms with a longing that you have stopped trying to conceal, because there is no one left to conceal it from. "I can hear her laughing sometimes.“ Your throat tightens painfully around the next part. "And I still cannot touch her." The maester's expression softens with a compassion that is genuine and unperformative, the look of someone who has sat with grief before and knows what it actually looks like. "I believe," he says, choosing his words with the particular care of someone who knows the weight of hope and does not want to mishandle it, "if you remain free of symptoms another day or two, we may begin to think differently." Hope, tiny and fragile and entirely disproportionate to the cautious words that carried it, and yet enough, somehow, which is the thing about hope that you have learned over the past year.. that it does not need to be large to do its work. You nod. "I shall continue to be patient." The old man inclines his head once more and takes his leave, the door closing quietly behind him, and silence settles over the chamber again like something returning to its natural state. Your maid helps you into a fresh gown, one that has never entered the king's chambers, one that will in all likelihood meet the same fate tomorrow, fed to the same fire by the same careful hands, and as she fastens the final ties behind your back, she smiles faintly into the mirror. "I have something to tell you." You look at her reflection. "Oh?"
"It is about Princess Vaella." Your entire attention belongs to her before she has finished the sentence, every other thought in the room simply ceasing to exist.
"What has she done?"
The maid laughs softly, a warm and genuine sound. "She has discovered mirrors." A tiny smile finds your lips despite itself.
"Has she?"
"Oh, yes," the maid says, and there is real delight in it as she begins brushing out your hair with long, even strokes. "Apparently she spent nearly half an hour smiling at her own reflection this morning." You laugh quietly, and the laugh is soft and a little helpless. "I wish" your voice breaks cleanly on the words, "I wish I had been there." The maid sets the brush aside and comes to stand beside you, a small and deliberate movement, the gesture of someone who has decided that proximity is what is needed rather than words. "You soon will be, your grace.“
"I hope so." The tears come quietly, without sobbing and without warning, one slipping down your cheek before you have registered they were gathering, and then another following it. "I miss her," you say, and the confession is scarcely louder than breathing, stripped of every defence. "I miss her so much." The maid places her hand gently over yours. "I know."
"I carried her for nine months," you continue, and fresh tears spill freely now, something in the saying of it opening a space that had been held carefully shut. "I have held her every single day since she was born," and your breathing falters, "and now" you look toward the nursery once more, toward the wall between you and your daughter, "I hear her laughing, and I cannot even kiss her goodnight." The words shatter whatever composure remains, a sob escaping before you can muffle it, and you cover your mouth with both hands while the maid gathers you into her arms immediately and without hesitation, not the way one embraces a queen, not with the careful deference of rank and title, but the way one woman holds another when the holding is what matters and everything else is beside the point. "You are protecting her," she whispers into your hair, with the quiet conviction of someone who means it entirely. "That is what mothers do." You nod weakly against her shoulder. "I know." Another sob escapes, smaller than the first. "I know." And somehow, the knowing is what hurts the most because understanding why does not quiet the instinct, does not silence the part of you that screams to run to her, to hold her, to breathe in the sweet familiar scent of her hair and kiss her tiny cheeks until she laughs, to simply be her mother in every ordinary and irreplaceable way that you have not been permitted to be for four days now, and the gap between knowing what is right and being able to bear it feels, in this moment, impossibly wide.
___
Valarrs POV
Valarr had reached the conclusion, somewhere between his third nap and his fourth bowl of broth, that recovery was profoundly boring, more boring, in fact, than anything else he had ever been required to endure. He had slept, and eaten, and slept again, and been instructed to rest so many times that the word itself had begun to lose all coherent meaning, wearing smooth from overuse until it was simply a sound that people made at him rather than anything with genuine content. Even the fever had finally abandoned him, which ought to have felt like a victory but had instead left behind nothing but an exhaustion so deep and so particular that merely sitting upright for an hour felt as though he had ridden from King's Landing to Winterfell and back again without stopping, his body apparently determined to remind him at every opportunity of exactly how much it had been through and how little interest it had in being hurried past it. Still. He was awake, and his mind was clear, and he was king and those three facts, in his considered opinion, ought to have counted for something considerably more than they appeared to. The maester, unfortunately, disagreed. "No."
Valarr looked up from the book lying forgotten upon his lap to find the maester standing near the door with his arms folded firmly across his chest, addressing the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and a nervous-looking royal steward who clutched several leather tubes beneath one arm with the expression of a man who has begun to regret every decision that led him to this particular doorway. "My lord," the steward said carefully, with the tone of someone choosing each word as though it might be the one that sets something on fire, "these documents require His Grace's seal."
"They require His Grace alive," the maester replied, without glancing at Valarr even once, as though the matter were entirely settled and the king's opinion on it irrelevant.
"They concern appointments within the City Watch," the steward continued, pressing forward with the quiet desperation of a man who has traveled a long way for this conversation and intends to get something out of it. "There are also letters awaiting His Grace's response from Oldtown, Riverrun and Sunspear, together with several petitions that have accumulated since—"
"I am aware of what has accumulated," the maester said, his tone remaining perfectly and somewhat unnervingly calm. "I am also aware that His Grace has only recently survived one of the deadliest illnesses our realm has ever known."
The steward shifted awkwardly beneath this observation. "The Small Council—"
"May wait."
Valarr sighed. "I am beginning to think the two of you enjoy arguing." Neither man laughed, which he supposed was entirely fair given the circumstances. The steward looked almost apologetic. "Your Grace, Lord Hayford believes it would reassure the realm if—"
"If the king were seen ruling," Valarr finished, and the steward nodded.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Before the maester could draw breath to object again, Valarr spoke. "Bring them." The old man turned so quickly that one might have been forgiven for thinking he had misheard, his expression arriving at a destination somewhere between astonishment and categorical refusal. "Absolutely not."
"It is reading." Valarr smiled faintly. "I have been reading since I was four."
"You were not recovering from the Great Spring Sickness at four, your grace."
Valarr rested his head back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling for a moment in the manner of a man making a calculated decision. "I have spent nearly two weeks staring at these walls," he said, and something in his voice shifted slightly, losing some of the lightness.
"And?" the maester replied.
"I fear I may soon begin speaking to them." The old man pinched the bridge of his nose with the particular weariness of someone who has been having variations of this argument for days. "Your Grace—"
"I cannot simply lie here while others govern in my stead."
"They are not governing. They are simply waiting."
"Precisely." Valarr looked toward the steward. "How many documents?"
The steward hesitated for just a moment too long. "...Eight." The maester looked as though he had been told something genuinely horrifying. "Eight?"
"They are rather short."
Valarr smiled pleasantly. "I shall read four."
“Your Grace, I must really—“
"Two?"
Silence settled between them, and eventually the maester exhaled heavily, with the sound of a man conceding a battle he has decided is not worth losing the war over. "One hour." Valarr blinked, genuinely surprised, and the old man pointed a finger at him with absolute directness before turning to the steward and delivering his conditions with the precision of someone who intends to be taken entirely literally, only matters requiring immediate attention, no politics, no disputes, no appointments unless they required an immediate seal, no remaining beyond one hour, and if His Grace coughed, yawned, looked tired, grew pale, or attempted to pretend he was not tired, the steward would leave immediately and without argument, a condition that visibly frightened the poor man enough that he nodded with more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary, nearly losing several scrolls from beneath his arm in the process. The maester delivered his final look at Valarr with the gravity it deserved. "You have one hour." The hour had not yet passed when the door opened again, and Valarr barely looked up from the parchment spread across his lap, one hand wrapped around the royal seal resting on the small table that had been pulled close to the bed. His handwriting looked dreadful, which was somewhat more embarrassing than he had anticipated, his hand still trembling enough that he had been forced to sign one decree twice before it resembled anything a person might recognise as his name. He frowned at the latest document, suspecting he is being made to suffer unnecessarily. "Why," he murmured mostly to himself, "does anyone require twelve separate signatures to repair a bridge?"
"More importantly , who thought it wise to bring bridge repairs into your bedchamber?" Valarr went completely still. He knew that voice with the same certainty with which he knew his own heartbeat, and the particular quality it carried in this moment told him everything he needed to know about what he was about to face before he had even looked up. Alysanne stood in the doorway, carrying no smile, not even the faintest trace of one, her arms folded across her chest while her gaze moved with deliberate and unhurried thoroughness from the documents spread across the bed, to him, to the steward standing several feet away with the expression of a man who has just understood that something has gone terribly wrong and is calculating the fastest possible route to the door.
"My queen," the steward began, with the heroic optimism of someone who has not yet fully assessed the situation. She raised one finger, and he fell silent immediately, with a promptness that Valarr found himself quietly admiring. Very slowly, she crossed the room, picked up the nearest parchment, read precisely three lines with focused attention, as if gathering evidence, and then looked back at him. "What—" her voice remained remarkably, almost unsettlingly calm, "is this?"
Valarr smiled with as much sheepishness as he could manage. "I became bored."
"So naturally the solution was governing the Seven Kingdoms."
"Am I not the king?"
She stared at him with an expression that communicated a great deal without requiring any words. "It was only a few documents."
"You are in bed, you have barely recovered and all you should be doing is resting." "So the maester keeps telling me." "And yet someone thought discussing the City Watch and tax collections with you was an excellent idea?" Neither Valarr nor the steward offered any response to this, both apparently deciding that silence was the wisest available option. Her eyes shifted to the steward with measured and entirely unhurried quality. "Who authorised this?" The poor man looked as though he might actually faint. "His Grace." "I see," she said, and nodded once, and then looked toward the door. "You may leave." "My queen, there are still—" "You may leave." There was something in her voice that did not permit argument in any of its forms, and within moments the steward had disappeared with a speed that made Valarr genuinely wonder whether he had run. The chamber fell silent, and Alysanne gathered every remaining parchment into her arms, carrying them to the far side of the room and setting them down well beyond any reasonable reach. Valarr watched her. "You are angry." "I am furious." "There is a difference?" "A considerable one," she said, without turning around. He smiled, because he could not entirely help it. "You should not be smiling." "I missed you." "You saw me this morning." "I have missed you since." Her expression softened for the briefest and most fleeting of moments before reassembling itself. She came back to the bed slowly, and the anger in her face gave way to something else entirely, something quieter and less comfortable and far more honest, when he spoke again, the lightness going out of his voice as completely as a candle. "I simply wanted something to do." He looked toward the window, toward the pale rectangle of sky beyond it. "I am tired of lying here.. I feel perfectly well until I try to stand, and then—" he paused, his jaw tightening slightly, "I cannot hold my daughter. I cannot sit through a council meeting. I cannot ride." He laughed, and the sound of it was bitter in a way that surprised even him. "I cannot even sign my own name without shaking." Alysanne crossed back to the bed without any further hesitation, and sat beside him, and took both of his hands into hers, her thumbs settling against his knuckles with the steady and deliberate warmth of someone who intends to stay exactly where they are. "You nearly died," she said, quietly but without softening the weight of it. "You are asking your body to forget that."
"I know."
"No," she said, squeezing gently. "I do not think you do." Her thumb brushed across his knuckles. "Valarr" she smiled, though it was a sad smile rather than a bright one, "you have spent your entire life believing that your worth comes from what you can do."
He looked down at their joined hands. "You do not have to prove anything." "I am king. And the realm—" "The realm can survive another fortnight." He opened his mouth, and she shook her head. "No. You are going to recover," she said, with another quiet squeeze of his hands, "and until you do, I will not see you attend your duties. I shall attend the council," she said, and his eyebrows rose. "You?" "I shall hear what they require, and I shall tell them exactly what the king wishes." He looked at her with a smile that had something genuinely fond in it. "You sound very confident, my lady lady wife." She leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, her lips warm against his skin for just a moment, and when she pulled back there was something in her expression that was both entirely serious and entirely her. "I learned from the best." He looked into her eyes. "So" a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, "my queen intends to rule in my place?"
"My king intends to recover." "And if I disagree?" "You may," she said pleasantly, tucking the blankets more securely around him with the focused care of someone who has decided that this, too, is non-negotiable. "But you shall do so after finishing your broth and taking your medicine." He groaned with great feeling.
____
Alysannes POV
The fever is gone, and the coughing has become infrequent enough that you no longer count every fit with your heart lodged somewhere in your throat, and this morning, after examining Valarr for what feels like the hundredth time, the maester finally smiles in the particular way of someone who has been waiting a long time to be able to do so. "It is my opinion," he says, folding his hands together with the measured satisfaction of a man delivering news he has worked very hard to be able to deliver, "that His Grace is no longer contagious." You close your eyes, and the relief arrives so suddenly and so completely that it almost makes your knees give way beneath you, the whole weight of the past week pressing down and then releasing all at once in a way that leaves you briefly unsteady. Beside you, Valarr lets out a long breath that carries approximately the same quality. "So I have finally been declared fit to rejoin civilisation."
The maester gives him a look that communicates a great deal without requiring any words. "I have declared you well enough to see your daughter," he says. "I have said nothing whatsoever about civilisation."
You laugh, and Valarr sighs with great feeling. "I shall take my victories where I can." The old man smiles despite himself, because he always does eventually, and then continues with the expression of someone who knows perfectly well his next words are going to be contested. "But," he says, looking pointedly at your husband, "His Grace remains far weaker than he believes."
"I object. I walked across the chamber yesterday."
"You walked eight paces." You argue.
"I reached the window."
"You then required a chair."
Valarr looks mildly offended and mumbled. "I sat because I wished to admire the view." The maester turns to you with the expression of someone choosing a more reliable audience. "He must continue taking things slowly." "I shall make certain of it."
The maester gathers his satchel with the brisk efficiency of a man who has said what he came to say. "No exertion," he begins, and Valarr opens his mouth, and the maester says, "No arguments," and Valarr closes it again with the expression of a man exercising considerable self-restraint. "No attempts to prove yourself, your Grace. You must think of your own health first." And with that, he inclines his head and quietly departs, leaving the chamber to settle into the particular silence that follows the maester's exits, which always carries a faint quality of the last word having been thoroughly had. Valarr waits precisely three heartbeats. "So—"
"No," you say immediately. "I haven't said anything. I merely wondered—"
"No."
He smiles, slow and entirely unrepentant. "I should like to stand when she comes." You fold your arms. "You may sit."
He looks almost wounded by this, the expression arriving with such genuine feeling that you almost feel sorry for him. "I stagger with dignity." You walk over to the chair you had placed beside the bed earlier, positioning it with a deliberateness that makes your meaning plain. "This is where you may sit." Not long afterwards, a gentle knock sounds upon the door, the nurse enters first and behind her, Vaella, sitting happily upon the nurse's hip and dressed in a soft cream gown embroidered with tiny silver dragons, her hair catching the morning light spilling through the windows with a brightness that seems to belong specifically to her. The moment Valarr sees her, everything else disappears.. you watch it happen in real time, watch every trace of exhaustion and every lingering shadow the illness has left behind simply vanish from his face as his entire expression softens into something so completely and helplessly full of love that your own eyes begin to sting before you have even fully registered it.
"Vaella," he says, and the name leaves him almost reverently, as though he is handling something precious. The nurse smiles. "I believe someone has missed her father, your Grace." And as though the familiar sound of his voice has reached some deep and certain part of her, Vaella turns her head, blinking once, twice, and then her entire face lights up with a brightness so absolute and so joyful that it seems to illuminate the whole room, a delighted squeal escaping her as both tiny arms stretch immediately and with complete conviction toward Valarr.
"Da!" It is not quite a word, not really, only a happy collection of sounds assembled without any particular knowledge of what they mean, and yet it steals the breath from your lungs so completely that for a moment you cannot speak. Valarr laughs, and then forgetting every promise he made scarcely half an hour earlier, throws the blankets aside.
"Valarr." He barely hears you, already rising from the bed with a speed that immediately drains the colour from his face, his hand reaching instinctively for the bedpost to steady himself as the room presumably does something complicated beneath him. "Valarr."
"I'm" he swallows, "quite alright."
"You most certainly are not." But he takes one step and then another with the stubborn and entirely hopeless determination of a father who has decided that his legs' opinions on the matter are not particularly relevant, and the nurse has already begun crossing the room toward him, so that by the time he reaches the waiting chair his breathing has quickened noticeably and he lowers himself into it rather more abruptly than he intended. You kneel beside him immediately. "I told you."
"I know," he says, a little breathless. "I simply" a weak smile arrives, entirely undimmed by the circumstances, "forgot." Despite yourself, you laugh, because he is impossible and you love him for it completely. The nurse carefully places Vaella into his waiting arms, and the little girl immediately grabs both sides of his face with astonishing and entirely characteristic determination. Valarr laughs again, his forehead coming gently to rest against hers. "There she is," he says, his voice carrying something that is not quite steady. "There is my little dragon." Vaella squeals happily and pats his cheeks with both hands in the manner of someone conducting a thorough inspection, as though checking that every part of him is still exactly where it should be. "I missed you too," he says, and his voice trembles around it. "So very much." She responds by grabbing a fistful of his hair with considerable enthusiasm, and he winces and then laughs anyway, because of course he does. "I see," he says, with great dignity. "You've become stronger." Another delighted squeal. "I suspected as much." You simply watch them, unable to speak, the way he looks at her and the way she studies his face with the complete and serious fascination of someone trying to understand something that is just beyond her, why her father looks a little thinner than she remembers, perhaps, or why the room smells different, or simply because he is there and she has decided to learn him again from the beginning. She reaches up and touches the faint stubble along his jaw with tiny exploratory fingers, and then giggles with the pure and uncomplicated delight of someone who has found something unexpectedly interesting, and Valarr closes his eyes briefly at the touch of it. "I thought" his voice catches, holds, and then continues, "I thought I might never hold you again." Your own tears spill quietly down your cheeks. Vaella, entirely unconcerned by anything so solemn, begins tugging with great focus at the ties of his nightshirt, and Valarr chuckles softly. "I fear your manners require some work," he tells her, and she responds by attempting to chew one of the ribbons instead. "Yes," he agrees, nodding with the solemnity the moment deserves. "Your mother warned me about that." The chamber fills with quiet laughter, and for several precious minutes nothing exists beyond the three of you, not the illness, not the weeks of fear, not the crown sitting somewhere beyond this room waiting for him to be well enough to carry it properly, only this, only the warm and particular reality of the three of you together in the morning light. Then you notice it, a faint tremor, barely perceptible at first, Valarr adjusting Vaella's weight slightly as his arms shake with the small involuntary trembling of muscles that have been asked to do something they are not yet quite ready for. You say nothing. Another minute passes, and the trembling becomes more pronounced, and still he keeps smiling and keeps talking to her and keeps pretending with every resource available to him that he has not noticed, but you know him, and you know exactly how hard he is gripping her, the particular tension in his arms that is not strength but the effort to simulate it, and you understand without needing to be told what it costs him.
Without a word, you rise from your chair. Valarr looks up, your eyes meet, and he knows and neither of you says anything, because nothing needs to be said. You simply smile softly before reaching down. "Come here, my love," and Vaella goes willingly into your arms with the delighted ease of someone who is happy to be held by absolutely anyone. You settle into the chair immediately beside his, close enough that your knees almost touch, and Vaella sits contentedly upon your lap while still reaching toward Valarr with one tiny outstretched hand, and he takes it immediately, wrapping one finger around all five of hers with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten. "I'm sorry." The words come so quietly that you almost miss them beneath the softness of the morning. You shake your head at once. "There is nothing to apologise for." "I wanted" he looks down at their joined hands, at the small and perfect fact of her fingers wrapped around his, "to hold her longer."
"I know." Your free hand finds his and you squeeze it gently. "You already did."
He looks at you, and in his eyes there is gratitude and relief in equal measure, relief that you noticed without making him ask, that you understood without requiring an explanation, that you simply saw and moved and did not make a thing of it, because that is how the two of you have always worked, in the small and unspoken languages that years of knowing someone build between them. You smile — the kind of smile that belongs only to him, the one you have kept specifically for this face for longer than you can now remember. "There will be tomorrow," you tell him, brushing your thumb across the back of his hand. "And the day after that. And before long, she will insist on running through the gardens until you chase after her." Valarr laughs softly. "I hope so." "You will," you say, with quiet certainty.
He watches Vaella for a long and unhurried moment — his daughter, close enough to kiss, close enough to touch, alive and warm and entirely herself and finally back within his reach — and then he turns his hand over beneath yours and intertwines his fingers with yours properly, and the three of you remain like that in the morning light while Vaella babbles happily between you.
____
Summer has painted the gardens in every shade of green imaginable, the roses climbing over pale stone walls in full and extravagant bloom, filling the warm morning air with their sweet perfume while somewhere nearby the fountains murmur quietly beneath the layered songs of countless birds, and you have always loved the gardens — always, for as long as you can remember — but never quite so much as today, when the simple fact of being in them feels like something you were not certain you would be allowed again. Vaella laughs, the bright and entirely delighted laugh of a child who has only very recently discovered that her own feet can carry her wherever she wishes them to go and has not yet recovered from the wonder of it, walking having become running in the way that everything becomes something more with her, through sheer conviction and enthusiasm if not always through accuracy. She toddles across the grass with all the determination in the Seven Kingdoms, her tiny arms held high for balance as she squeals triumphantly at having escaped yet another pair of waiting hands, glancing back over one shoulder with the expression of someone who knows perfectly well what she is doing and finds it enormously satisfying.
"Come back here, little dragon," Valarr calls, his voice carrying easily through the warm morning air with a warmth that matches it. "I know perfectly well you are doing this on purpose." Vaella glances back at him, and the moment she sees him following, she erupts into another fit of giggles and immediately attempts to walk even faster, which, unfortunately, only results in her sitting rather abruptly upon the grass, the ground having failed to cooperate with her ambitions. She blinks once before she pushes herself upright again and continues onward with undiminished purpose. You laugh. "I believe she's winning."
"I refuse to accept defeat." Valarr laughs, and you still thank the Seven every single time you hear it — you cannot help it, it has become entirely involuntary, a small and private gratitude offered upward every time the sound fills the air around you, because it had been so long and so painfully long, and now it seems to fill every corner of the gardens as though it has always belonged there, which perhaps it has.
Vaella changes direction entirely without warning, as she frequently does, and Valarr follows immediately, and she squeals again with satisfaction, until he catches her at last, sweeping her into his arms before she can escape a second time and pressing a noisy and enthusiastic kiss against her cheek. "There," he announces with great satisfaction. "I have finally defeated the fiercest princess in Westeros." Vaella protests this characterisation by patting both his cheeks with surprising indignation, the gesture so specific and so pointed that it earns its own response. "I see negotiations have begun." You smile watching them, a smile that has nothing calculated or performed about it, because she looks so wonderfully happy and so does he, and it is the sort of morning you once feared you would never have, the sort of ordinary happiness that feels almost miraculous now precisely because of what it cost to arrive at it, the kind of unremarkable Tuesday morning that you have decided to be grateful for with every part of yourself. Another half hour passes in much the same way, Vaella wandering and Valarr following, she discovering butterflies and he pretending not to notice when she repeatedly attempts to chase creatures considerably faster than herself, until she abandons butterflies entirely in favour of collecting stones, every single one of which is apparently a treasure of the highest order. Your husband solemnly inspects each offering as though she has presented him with the crown jewels, turning each small muddy pebble over in his hands with the gravity of an expert appraiser. "This one," he declares of a particularly unremarkable specimen, "is particularly magnificent." You raise an eyebrow. "It is entirely ordinary." "It possesses character." "It possesses mud." "Precisely," he agrees, and Vaella beams with pride, and you shake your head with a fondness that belongs entirely to him. The morning drifts lazily onward, unhurried and golden, and then, almost without noticing precisely when it happens, you see the change. Valarr bends to pick Vaella up once more, and when he straightens he pauses, only for a moment, his smile remaining in place and his voice continuing its conversation with her without missing a beat and yet you notice the deeper breath, the slight and deliberate rise and fall of his chest, the faint colour that has appeared along his cheekbones that has nothing to do with the summer warmth. He carries her another few yards before quietly setting her back upon the grass with a cheerfulness that is entirely genuine and entirely careful. "Go on, find another magnificent stone," he tells her, and she toddles away happily and without complaint, and he watches her for a moment before lowering himself onto the nearby stone bench. You cross the distance between you without a word, and by the time you sit beside him he is trying very hard to pretend he is not breathing quite so heavily as he was a minute ago, and you wait, because you know him well enough to know that he dislikes being fussed over, that hovering would cost him something it is not worth costing him when patience will serve the same purpose.
After a little while, you ask quietly. "Too much?"
He exhales slowly, the breath measured and careful. "I thought" another breath, "I had more in me." Your heart aches with the simplicity of it. You take his hand, and his fingers are warm from the summer sun, and you hold them in both of yours. "You've been playing with her for nearly an hour," you say. "I used to ride for hours," he replies. "I know."
He looks down at their joined hands, having a conversation with himself as much as with you. "It is only walking," he says, so quietly that the words almost disappear beneath the sound of the fountain nearby. "I survived the plague." He laughs once, without humour, the sound of someone who finds the irony of something genuinely painful. "I survived it and somehow I still cannot chase my own daughter across a garden without feeling as though I have climbed the Wall." You turn toward him. His eyes remain fixed on Vaella, who has now moved on from stones and is proudly presenting a daisy to one of the gardeners. "I hate it," he says, and the confession is little more than a whisper, the kind of thing said not to be heard particularly but simply because it needs to be released from wherever it has been sitting. "I know."
"I feel" he searches for the word with a patience that tells you he has been searching for it for some time, "less." Your hand tightens around his immediately, the tightening instinctive and firm. "No." He shakes his head faintly, not in disagreement exactly but in the way of someone who is not yet finished. "I was never the strongest knight in the realm," he says. "But I could ride." A pause, quiet enough to hear the birds in it. "I could run." Another. "I never thought about breathing." The words break your heart far more completely than if he had said them loudly, because they are not said with anger or with self-pity but only with the bewildered honesty of him trying to understand something that does not make sense to him yet. You lift his hand to your lips and press a gentle kiss against his knuckles, holding it there for a moment. "You nearly died," you say. Silence. "You ask your body to forget that."
He smiles, sadly and without any particular resistance to the truth of it. "I suppose I do." "It remembers," you say simply, and he finally looks at you. "You survived something that took almost everyone," you continue, your voice remaining gentle rather than emphatic, because this is not a speech but only the truth, offered as plainly as you know how to offer it. "Your body has not forgotten how hard it had to fight." Another quiet moment passes between you, the kind that does not need to be filled. "It will become easier," you say at last.
"You promise?" He looks at you with something that is part hope and part the particular vulnerability of wanting very much to believe something.
You smile. "No," you say honestly, and he laughs softly at that, a real laugh this time rather than the other kind.
"I appreciate your honesty."
"I cannot promise something neither of us controls," you tell him, reaching up to brush a loose strand of silver hair back from his forehead, "but I can promise you this." He waits. "Three months ago, you could not stand without nearly collapsing," you say, and his eyes soften. "Two months ago, you could barely hold Vaella," and a tiny smile appears. "One month ago, walking across this garden would have been impossible." You nod toward the little girl, who has abandoned the daisy and resumed chasing a butterfly with undiminished optimism. "And today," your smile widens, "you spent almost an hour making your daughter laugh." He follows your gaze, and as though she has been waiting for precisely this moment, Vaella turns and spots her parents sitting together on the bench, and changes direction entirely without any hesitation, toddling toward them as quickly as her legs will carry her with a squeal of pure delight. "Dada!" Valarr laughs. "There she is again." She reaches him and lifts both tiny arms expectantly upward, and he hesitates — only for a heartbeat, a hesitation so brief that anyone who did not know him as well as you do would miss it entirely — and you notice, and without a word you lift Vaella into your own arms first before settling her comfortably across both your laps, the transition so smooth and so natural that she scarcely seems to register it, immediately climbing toward her father anyway and planting one tiny hand flat against his chest before producing, with enormous pride, the rather ordinary daisy she has apparently been rescuing from the lawn and carrying in her fist for some time.
"For me?" He accepts it with exaggerated reverence, turning it between his fingers as though assessing its quality with the full weight of his considerable expertise. "I have never received such a magnificent gift." Vaella claps with delight at this assessment, and you rest your head lightly against his shoulder, and for a moment the three of you are simply quiet in the summer warmth. "You know," you say softly, and he glances at you, "I think she's quite happy simply having you here."
His fingers intertwine with yours. "I hope so." "I know so."
He watches his daughter for another long and unhurried moment, the kind of watching that has nothing distracted about it, only complete attention, and then says quietly. "I suppose" a smile touches his lips, private and thoughtful, "perhaps surviving was never about becoming exactly who I was before." You look at him, and he looks at Vaella, and the smile deepens. "Perhaps it's about becoming the father she needs now." Your eyes fill unexpectedly with tears and you lean over and kiss his temple, your lips resting against his skin for just a moment. "I think," you whisper, "she has already found him." And as Vaella dissolves into another fit of delighted laughter between the two of you, entirely without reason and entirely without restraint, neither crown nor kingdom seems nearly so important as the quiet and ordinary and almost unbearably precious blessing of a summer morning, together.
_____
The library has always felt different in the early evening, as though the books themselves absorb the noise of the day and hold it there between their pages, leaving only the soft crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle of parchment to disturb the stillness while the sunlight streaming through the tall arched windows turns the dust floating through the air into something that looks almost deliberately beautiful, small flecks of gold drifting through the amber light like something out of a dream. Valarr is already there when you arrive, sitting in the same chair he has favoured for years with a heavy leather-bound history resting open across his lap, though you notice immediately that he has scarcely turned a page, and that the book is, in truth, only an excuse, because he is watching the doorway and has clearly been watching it for some time, waiting with the particular patience of someone who has been looking forward to a thing and is too honest with himself to pretend otherwise. The moment you step inside, he smiles. "There you are."
You return the smile as you quietly close the door behind you. "I was told His Grace required my company."
"I did."
You arch an eyebrow. "And here I thought you had summoned one of your councillors." "They are far less pleasant to read beside." You laugh softly. "I should hope so."
He rises and although the months have restored a great deal of his strength, the deliberateness with which he moves has become so familiar now that you barely notice it except in the way you notice everything about him, which is to say completely and without meaning to. There is no fever left, no lingering cough save for the occasional morning one that neither of you remarks upon anymore, and yet the Great Spring Sickness has left its mark upon him in ways both visible and invisible, and both of you have long since stopped pretending otherwise, having arrived somewhere on the other side of pretending that feels considerably more like peace. He crosses the room to you, and without a word presses a gentle kiss against your forehead before taking the book from your hands with the ease of performing a gesture so familiar it has long since stopped requiring thought. "I thought we might read."
"We haven't done that in years."
"We have been rather busy becoming king and queen."
"I suppose we have."
"And producing children," he adds, with the mild tone of someone noting a fact of some significance, and you laugh. "That too."
He leads you toward the long window overlooking the gardens, where another chair has already been placed beside his own.. your chair, positioned exactly as you would have placed it yourself and you settle beside him while he opens his book once more, though neither of you truly begins reading, and the silence that fills the space between you is the particular kind that only comes from years of knowing someone well enough to be entirely comfortable without words, easy and warm and faintly reminiscent of those first weeks in King's Landing when books had been the safest excuse either of you could find simply to remain in one another's company. Valarr reaches for your hand without looking away from the page, his thumb moving in small absentminded circles across your fingers, and for a little while you simply sit there together in the evening light while the fire crackles softly and the garden beyond the window settles into its golden hour quiet. "You've become distracted," he says at last. "So have you," you reply, and he glances down at the page with the expression of a man confronted with evidence. "I've been reading the same sentence for nearly ten minutes." "I noticed." "You should have told me." "I thought perhaps the history of Aegon the Conqueror had suddenly become very complicated." He smiles. "I was thinking."
You squeeze his hand. "What were you thinking about?"
His eyes drift, almost unconsciously, toward your stomach, the curve of it that has begun to show more prominent your gown and something in his expression shifts as his gaze settles there, becoming quieter and more inward. "The baby." Your own smile softens at the words. "I had suspected as much." "I keep wondering—" "What?" "If it's a boy."
The words hang quietly between you, and you know immediately why he says them in quite that way, with quite that particular weight — and so does he, which is why neither of you speaks the name at first, the silence between you doing the work that words are sometimes too small to carry. Baelon. The name exists in the room without being said, present in the way that grief becomes present in the spaces between things after enough time has passed, woven into the fabric of ordinary moments rather than arriving separately. Finally Valarr exhales slowly, a long and careful breath. "I do not know whether I should pray for a son." You lower your eyes. "I've wondered the same." "I wanted one so desperately after Vaella was born," he says, and there is sadness in it but also something honest, something that is not ashamed of itself. "I remember." "I still do," he says, and then laughs quietly, the laugh carrying that particular quality he has when something is true and tender and painful all at once. "But now" his fingers tighten gently around yours, "I fear I would spend every day comparing him."
Your chest aches. "So would I." "I don't want to." "Neither do I." "He wouldn't be Baelon, he'd be himself," and you nod, because that is the heart of it, the thing that matters most and the thing that is most difficult to hold onto. "He deserves to be loved for exactly who he is," you say softly. "And not for the child we lost," and your voice is barely above a whisper on the last of it.
Valarr looks at you for a long moment. "If it is a boy" he smiles, sadly and with great love, "he will never replace his brother." "No.. And if it's another little girl—"
"I shall simply have two daughters conspiring against me," he finishes, and you laugh. "You already lose every argument against one." "I imagine two will be impossible."
"They learned from their father." "They most certainly learned from their mother."
You lean your head against his shoulder, and the warmth of him settles around you with all the particular comfort of something known and chosen over a very long time. "Have you thought of names?" "A few." "You first." He thinks for a long moment, the kind of thinking that comes from somewhere deep rather than somewhere quick, and then says."If it's a boy.. Aemon." You look up at him. "Aemon?" He nods. "A prince remembered for honour rather than glory." You smile, feeling the rightness of it settle quietly into place. "I like it." "And you?" "If it's a girl—" you hesitate, "—Alyssa." He repeats it softly, tasting the shape of it. "Alyssa." "I've always loved the name." "So have I," he says, and the small agreement feels like something sealed between you, something decided without ceremony in the way that the most important things often are. Silence settles once more, and it is not empty — it is never empty between the two of you anymore, has not been for years, being instead the kind of silence that is simply full of everything that has already been said and does not need to be said again, of shared years and shared losses and shared ordinary mornings, all of it present without needing to be named.
Eventually Valarr closes the book altogether and sets it aside with the air of a man who has reached a decision. "I never thanked you."
You frown. "For what?"
"For staying." You blink. "I should hope your wife would stay."
He smiles faintly, with the expression of someone who knows you are going to say exactly that and has been waiting for it. "Not merely as my wife." He turns toward you fully, and there is something in the way he does it that makes your heart do something slightly unsteady. "As everything. You stood beside me when I was only a prince," he says, his voice quieter now, stripped of its usual lightness, carrying only what it means. "You stood beside me when I buried my father." His thumb moves gently across your knuckles. "You stood beside me when I thought we would never recover from losing Baelon." Tears sting your eyes immediately, arriving before you have made any decision to let them. "You stood beside me when the realm placed a crown upon my head while I was too ill even to know it had happened." His gaze never leaves yours. "And when I woke" his voice catches, holds, releases, "you were there."
You swallow hard. "I always will be."
"I know," he says, and a gentle smile touches his lips. "That is precisely why I am thanking you." He lifts your hand and presses a long and unhurried kiss against your fingers, the gesture carrying all the tenderness of a man who means it entirely. "I do not think I have ever told you properly." "You tell me every day." "No," he says, shaking his head with a certainty that asks you to hear the distinction. "I tell you that I love you." His violet eyes shine in the evening light, warm and steady and entirely his. "I have never told you why." Your heart begins beating a little faster. "You are" he pauses, searching for words with the patience of someone for whom this matters enough to do carefully, "the strongest woman I have ever known." A tear slips quietly down your cheek. "You crossed an entire kingdom because your family asked it of you, and you endured things no woman should ever endure," and his jaw tightens briefly, "and you still chose kindness," he says, and another tear follows the first. "You lost our son," and his own voice begins to tremble around the words, "and you nearly lost me," and he reaches up and gently brushes the tear from your cheek with his thumb, the touch so careful and so particular that it undoes you further. "And somehow" a smile arrives through his own tears, filled with a quiet wonder that is entirely genuine, "you still wake every morning with enough love left inside you to fill an entire castle."
You cannot stop crying now, and you do not particularly try. "You are the most wonderful woman I have ever known," he continues, smiling through tears of his own, "the most loving, the bravest.. and every day I thank the Seven that they chose you for me." You shake your head, unable to produce words that feel adequate to the moment. "I cannot imagine this life without you," he says, and his forehead comes to rest gently against yours, the two of you close enough that the words are simply breath. "I do not wish to." His voice is scarcely louder than breathing itself. "You are my home, Alysanne."
The tears fall freely now, without hurry, without shame. "So whether we have another daughter who rules my heart, or another son who fills these halls with laughter" he smiles, "whether we reign for fifty years or five" he closes his eyes, "the greatest blessing of my life will never be this crown." His hand finds yours again, and holds it. "It will always be that girl from Highgarden who wandered into this library with a book in her hands and somehow convinced me that I could become a better man."
You kiss him then, slowly and with great tenderness, the sort of kiss that belongs not to the beginning of a love story but to two people who have weathered grief and sickness and loss and joy together over years long enough to have changed them both, who have sat beside each other in the dark and in the light, and who know with complete certainty that whatever the years ahead may hold, they will meet them standing side by side. When you finally draw apart, Valarr rests one hand very gently over yours where it lies against your growing stomach, the gesture unhurried and warm. "I think," he says with a quiet smile, "our little one has excellent timing." You laugh. "And why is that?" "Because they have interrupted their parents before either of them became unbearably sentimental." You wipe another tear from your cheek. "Though I became unbearably sentimental," he says, entirely unashamed and entirely certain, "the day I fell in love with you." And somehow, sitting together in the library where it had all begun, with evening settling gently over the Red Keep and the fire burning low and a new life growing quietly between them, you understand that after everything you had endured together, loving one another had become the easiest thing either of you had ever done.
____
The bells of the Red Keep rang long into the afternoon. Their voices carried across Blackwater Bay, over the crowded streets of King's Landing and through every hall of the castle, announcing to the realm that another child had been born to the royal house. Within the quiet of the royal library, far removed from the celebrations echoing beyond its walls, Grand Maester Orwel dipped his quill into fresh ink. He waited a moment for the droplets to settle. Then, upon a clean page within the great leather-bound chronicle of the reign of King Valarr I Targaryen, he began to write in a careful, practiced hand.
On the first day of the fifth moon of the year two hundred and thirteen After Conquest, Her Grace Queen Alysanne Tyrell was safely delivered of a healthy daughter within the Red Keep.
The scratching of the quill was the only sound in the chamber.
The child was given the name Princess Alyssa of House Targaryen.
Another line followed.
Princess Alyssa is the fifth child born of Their Graces King Valarr I Targaryen and Queen Alysanne, and their second daughter.
He paused only briefly before adding the final record.
As of this day the royal children now stand as follows: Princess Vaella, Prince Aemon, heir to the Iron Throne, Prince Baelor and Princess Alyssa.
The old maester read the page over once. Satisfied, he scattered a light dusting of fine sand across the fresh ink before gently closing the heavy chronicle. Outside, the bells continued to ring. Another princess had entered the world. Another page had been added to the history of House Targaryen. And though future generations would know only the names, the dates and the order in which the children had been born, those who had lived through the years of plague, grief, hope and love would remember something history never could, that this little family had been hard won. And all four children had been born into a kingdom ruled not only by a king and queen, but by a husband and wife who, against all odds, had chosen one another every single day.
The End.
______
So this is it. My little story idea has come to and end. I do want to thank everyone for reading about Valarr and Alysanne and their journey, it has truly meant a lot! If you do have requests for more glimpses into their lives, feel free to let me know <3 Coronation? Family life? There are many possibilities. Hope you enjoyed the finale!!
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Tag list: @gknj9495 @hydracassiopeiadarablack @062292 @white-olive @xxvelvetxxxx
A/N: tumblr is being a pain in my ass and makes it so hard for me to post bc the chapter is so fucking long. So while I edit and edit and edit, I thought you’d like a sneak peak into what this chapter has in store! Can’t believe we’ve reached the finale!
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Valarrs POV
The gardens are eerily quiet.
That is the very first thing Valarr perceives upon stepping into their tranquil embrace.
Not merely peaceful, but eerily still, wrongly silent, as if the familiar symphony of the Red Keep’s bustling life had been deliberately silenced and buried beneath an unseen, suffocating blanket of silence.
He stands amidst the lush rose bushes, heavy with the scent of summer blooms, his gaze fixed on the winding, serpentine paths stretching out before him like a maze of memories he cannot quite grasp. For a fleeting moment, his mind refuses to produce the memory of how he came to be here—what he was doing just moments before this strange stillness settled upon him.
He had been.. What was it?
The thought slips away before he can grasp it, dissolving like mist in the sunlight.
The warmth of the sun bathes his skin, and the sky above is an impossibly vibrant shade of azure, stretching endlessly and unblemished by clouds. Somewhere nearby, the unmistakable sound of children’s laughter echoes softly through the silence, light, carefree, innocent. It draws his attention, and he turns instinctively toward the cheerful noise.
The laughter originates from the lower gardens, where a picnic blanket has been spread beneath the shade of an ancient tree— one of those majestic oaks whose broad branches cast enough shadow to shelter half a household during the height of summer.
There, amidst the dappled sunlight and rustling leaves, sits a woman.
Her brown hair cascades in gentle waves around her shoulders, and her eyes are a vivid shade of green.. alive, warm, and familiar. Her profile is so recognizable that it slices through the haze of confusion that clouds Valarr’s mind, anchoring him in a moment that feels both distant and painfully immediate.
His chest tightens with a strange, aching relief.
Gods. There she is.
For reasons beyond his understanding, he had been searching for her, searching with a desperation that clawed at his soul. And now, as he beholds her, that realization crashes over him like a tidal wave, she is here. She is real. But something is off. Strangely, she has not noticed him.
She sits there, smiling faintly, her gaze fixed on the children racing across the grass with unrestrained joy. Children. Four of them.
The oldest girl, no more than seven, her hair flying behind her as she dashes forward, sports a pair of brown eyes that seem to shimmer with mischief and innocence. The sight of her catches Valarr completely off guard, this is Vaella, yet she is so much older, so much more… real, more vivid than he remembers.
His breath catches in his throat.
His little girl so small, so delicate— stands before him now, older, full of life and movement, her laughter ringing out as she chases after one of the boys.
It’s the same sound, he tells himself—exactly the same— yet it’s also different.
His feet move instinctively, carrying him across the grass towards them before he even consciously realizes. No one stops him, no one seems surprised by his presence, perhaps because they don’t see him at all. The children continue their game, unperturbed. The oldest boy, probably around six, runs past with a wooden sword clutched tightly in his small hands, his face alight with mischief. A younger sibling follows close behind, a smaller girl tumbling after them, her laughter like bells ringing in the air.
Valarr’s gaze flicks from one child to the next, brown hair, brown eyes, faces so familiar yet so strange— each piece fitting together like fragments of a puzzle he is only beginning to understand. Pieces of Alysanne, pieces of himself, all swirling in a confusing, painful mosaic.
His stomach twists painfully. Who are they?
The question feels absurd, almost pointless, yet it persists— gnawing at him with relentless insistence. Somehow, deep within, he already knows the truth; knows what these faces represent.
The oldest girl notices him first.
Vaella slows her stride, dark eyes locking onto his own, searching, questioning. For a moment, they stand there, silent, suspended in time, staring at each other as if they speak a language only they understand.
Valarr manages a smile.. soft, involuntary, born of a tumult of emotions that threaten to overwhelm him.
“Vaella,” he whispers, the name spilling forth almost involuntarily, heavy with longing.
The girl tilts her head slightly, her expression a mixture of confusion and politeness, as if a stranger has addressed her, unfamiliar and distant.
The smile falters on Valarr’s face, slipping away like sand through his fingers.
She doesn’t recognize him. Something cold and hollow settles deep within his chest, an ache that spreads through him like icy water.
“Do I know you?” she asks, her voice as innocent as a summer breeze.. sweet, curious and unknowing.
Valarr’s heart clenches painfully. He stares, silent. The question should not hurt, yet it does, more than he thought possible. It wounds him deeply, piercing through layers of hope and despair alike.
“No,” he finally replies, voice trembling with a strange mixture of regret and longing.
Vaella nods immediately, her expression settling into a polite, childlike acceptance, and then she offers him a smile, one that children often give to strangers before turning away, retreating to the comfort of her companions.
And with that, she runs back toward the others, leaving Valarr standing alone.. confused, lost, and aching with a silent, gnawing sense of emptiness. A familiar laugh draws his attention once more.
Alysanne. For a fleeting moment, relief washes over him, hope fluttering in his chest, certain that she will see him, recognize him, call to him, but then she looks up. Her gaze meets his and the connection is severed instantly.
There is no recognition, no surprise, no warmth, no flicker of acknowledgment.
Only a distant, polite detachment, as if he were nothing more than a passing courtier in her day. Valarr’s stomach drops, an icy dread settling deep in his core. Then, unexpectedly, someone sits beside her, someone he hadn’t noticed before.
Gods, how had he missed him? Matarys.
His brother, settling onto the blanket with effortless familiarity, as if he belongs there, as if he’s always been part of this scene.
Alysanne shifts slightly to make room for him, movement so natural, so practiced, that it pierces through Valarr’s senses like a knife. The two exchange words, words that float softly through the air.
Alysanne laughs so softly and comfortably, with genuine amusement, without flirtation or pretense, as if sharing a moment among old friends who have known each other for years.
The sight twists something painfully inside Valarr’s chest, a knot of longing and despair tightening with each passing second.
This is wrong. Everything about it feels wrong. He senses it with an instinct that cannot be ignored. And yet, the certainty only deepens when Matarys reaches out and gently brushes a loose strand of Alysanne’s hair from her face, a gesture tender and intimate, so familiar that it makes his stomach churn.
Alysanne responds with a soft smile, not pulling away, her eyes gleaming with something unspoken.
Valarr’s fists clench. He takes a step forward, then another. His heart pounds violently in his chest and he wants to call her name. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs, to demand what this absurd, cruel tableau means, why none of them recognize him, why they act as if they are strangers.
But no sound escapes his lips.
The children continue to laugh and chase each other while the gardens remain stunningly beautiful. The sunlight persists in its warm, golden glow. And that, cruelly, makes everything worse because no one looks unhappy. No one appears frightened or lost. No one shows any sign of pain or confusion. Only him. Only Valarr.
Standing there, alone amidst strangers wearing the faces of those he loves most, yet utterly unknowable.
Then, suddenly, Alysanne leans forward and she kisses Matarys briefly and softly, as if it were just an ordinary gesture between two dear friends.
Valarr’s heart stops and his vision blurs.
The laughter of children becomes distant and genuine fear grips him, that terrible, sinking realization that he understands a truth darker than any he has faced before.
Not where he is. Not why he is there.
But the terrible, unbearable truth beneath it all. That somehow life has continued without him and he is left standing on the outside, watching as everything moves forward in a world that has forgotten him entirely.
______
Alysannes POV
The nursery feels cramped, suffocating almost, as if the very walls are closing in around you or perhaps it is simply your thoughts that have grown too vast, too heavy to contain within this small space. You are no longer certain of anything, of what is real, what is imagined, what is true. The room is warm, bathed in a gentle, flickering candlelight that casts soft shadows on the walls, creating an illusion of peace, yet none of it reaches you. The toys scattered near the hearth remain untouched, silent witnesses to an innocence now overshadowed by your own turmoil. Vaella’s cradle stands beside the bed, neatly prepared for her nurses, a silent promise of the life yet to be fully realized. Somewhere beyond, a woman quietly folds linens, her movements rhythmic and calm, trying perhaps to impose order on chaos that only you can feel.
And still, you pace back and forth, your footsteps echoing softly on the worn wooden floorboards, a restless rhythm that mirrors the storm raging inside your mind. The maester’s words cling to you, relentless, like a shadow you cannot shake. Contagious. The illness is highly contagious. The prince must remain isolated. No visitors. No unnecessary contact. No exceptions. These words resonate in your ears, each syllable a heavy weight pressing down on your chest. You stop momentarily by the window, peering out into the darkening sky, then immediately begin pacing again, driven by a terrible thought that refuses to release you. What if there is no later? What if this sickness worsens, spiraling beyond control? What if—? Your stomach twists painfully, an icy sensation curling through your core. Gods. You press your hand against your forehead, trying to clear the fog, but the room feels stifling, claustrophobic, as if the very air is thick with dread.
The nurse, seated quietly beside Vaella, watches you with a careful, empathetic gaze.
“My lady,” she ventures softly. You do not answer. Because if you do, you fear you might break.. start crying, and once that begins, you are not sure you will be able to stop. The nurse exchanges a glance with your lady’s maid, a silent communication filled with concern, uncertainty. Neither looks particularly optimistic.
“My lady,” the maid whispers gently, “the maester knows what he is doing.”
You laugh short and humorless, devoid of genuine amusement. “The maester.. the maester… how would you know what he knows?.” The words tumble out sharper than you intended, sharp enough to cut through the fragile silence. Instantly, regret floods your chest, the words hang heavy in the air. The maid lowers her eyes, murmuring, “I did not mean—”
“I know,” you reply, voice trembling, cracking with emotion. You close your eyes briefly, inhaling slowly, then exhaling a shaky breath. The anger isn’t directed at them, it isn’t directed at anyone. It is simply fear so raw and desperate, searching desperately for somewhere to go. “I do apologize,” you whisper.
The maid offers a soft, reassuring smile. “There is nothing to apologize for, my lady.” Yet, her kindness only deepens your sense of despair. You resume pacing, each step creaking beneath your restless weight, the worn floorboards groaning softly beneath you. Outside, beyond the thick stone walls of the castle, faint voices drift through the evening air, distant echoes of life continuing, oblivious to the storm inside your heart. It feels as if the world is unchanging, as if everything remains normal, while your entire universe has been upended, thrown into chaos in an instant.
Your hand unconsciously drifts to your stomach, an instinctive gesture, a silent connection to the life growing within you. The baby. Shortly ago, that knowledge had been a source of joy, overwhelming and wondrous, a promise of new life. Now, it only adds weight to your burden, complicating everything with its fragile existence. You lower yourself slowly into one of the nearby chairs, your body trembling as your mind races through all the possibilities, all the fears.
The nurse notices immediately. “My lady?” she prompts gently.
You stare at the floor, voice barely above a whisper. “If I become ill…” The words catch, thick and choking in your throat.
The nurse’s face softens, her expression tender but firm. “You will not,” she assures. “You do not know that,” you whisper in return, voice trembling.
“My lady..”
“If I become ill,” you cut her off quietly, “then the baby is at risk.” Silence falls heavy and oppressive. No one argues. Everyone understands. Your hand remains pressed lightly on your abdomen, feeling the faint flutter of life within, a tiny heartbeat, a fragile hope. Another child. Another tiny life. And yet, each decision now feels impossible, tangled in doubt and fear. Because if it were only you, Gods, if it were only you, you would already be there. Ignoring warnings, dismissing cautions, defying every maester’s advice in Westeros. You would be sitting beside Valarr’s bed, holding his hand, refusing to leave, refusing to break the promise of your bond. But it’s not only you. There is Vaella. And now the baby. Your baby. Valarr’s baby. The realization twists painfully in your chest, a sudden ache that makes your head spin. You lower your head, trembling fingers pressed against your lips, fighting back tears. What if he asks for you? The thought hits so suddenly, so fiercely, that tears burn behind your eyes. What if he wakes and asks where you are? What if he thinks you abandoned him? What if—? No. No. Valarr would never think that. But the fear remains, persistent, unyielding. Some things, many things, that logic cannot touch.
The nurse rises from her chair, moving closer with gentle purpose. “My lady,” she says softly. You look up, meeting her kind, steady gaze. “The prince loves you,” she says. The words nearly undo you. You look away, because suddenly, the room feels too blurry, too overwhelming.
“I know,” you whisper, as if saying it enough times might make it true. The nurse rests a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “He would not wish you to endanger yourself.” Her words cut deep because they are true. Valarr would be furious, not with you, never with you, but with the situation, with the risk, with anyone who allowed it, especially now. Especially with Vaella. Especially with another child on the way. Your eyes drift toward the cradle, toward your daughter. Vaella sleeps peacefully, one tiny hand curled against her cheek, unaware that the adults around her are quietly unraveling. The sight nearly breaks your heart. You love her so much, so impossibly much, and if something were to happen to you, who would stay with her? Who would comfort her? Who would tell her stories at night? The thought weighs heavily in your chest. You close your eyes, trying to breathe, trying to think, trying to make sense of any of it. Yet all you see is Valarr alone, somewhere else in the castle, ill, beyond your reach. Minutes pass, perhaps longer, while the silence lingers, thick and suffocating. The nurse returns to her chair, the lady’s maid resumes her work, and neither dares to break the storm raging within you. Because there is no stopping it, not truly. Eventually, you rise, slow and deliberate, the movement immediately capturing both women’s attention.
“My lady?” the nurse prompts softly. You glance toward the cradle, then back at them. Your decision, made in a rush of desperation, takes shape, still uncertain, irrational, but certain enough.
“I need to go somewhere.” The nurse’s face shifts instantly, alarmed. “My lady…”
“I am not doing anything foolish,” you say quickly, the words slipping out before you can second-guess yourself. The truth is, you are. The nurse recognizes this, of course. You sigh, then cross the room toward Vaella’s cradle, pausing for a moment just to look at her, your beautiful, tiny daughter, taking in every detail, etching her image into your memory. Then, with gentle fingers, you brush her hair aside and look back at the women.
“Watch her for me,” you say softly. The request feels both simple and enormous, a burden you are placing on them without fully understanding the weight. The nurse immediately rises.
“Of course, my lady” she replies. You nod once, trying to steady yourself, trying to ignore the pounding of your heart. Because you are still not entirely sure what you are about to do, only that you cannot stay here any longer, not while every thought inside your head spirals back to him.
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Tag list: @gknj9495 @062292 @hydracassiopeiadarablack @xxvelvetxxxx @white-olive
Pairing: Modern Valarr Targaryen x female OC, Modern Aerion Targaryen x female OC
Word count: 9.7k
Warnings: none.
Summary: friends to lovers. Serena tells herself it's fine; that Aerion will change, that this is what love is supposed to look like. Valarr is determined to prove her wrong, he's just never meant to fall in love with her while doing so.
Previous chapter can be found here
Serenas POV
I wake gradually, emerging from the depths of sleep in a series of slow, deliberate stages rather than all at once, my awareness unfolding piece by piece. Initially, I am conscious only of the comforting warmth enveloping me, and only after a moment do I realize that this warmth has a tangible source. For several seconds, I remain perfectly still, my eyes still closed, suspended somewhere in the liminal space between sleep and wakefulness, while my mind works quietly to assemble the details surrounding me, trying to make sense of the scene that has begun to take shape.
I notice, first and foremost, that the mattress I lie on is not mine, its unfamiliar texture and slight firmness hinting at a place I do not recognize. The room itself is also foreign.. the walls, the faint scent of unfamiliar furniture, all of it signals that I am somewhere else, somewhere that isn’t my usual sanctuary. An arm, warm and solid, rests around my waist, its presence both startling and oddly reassuring as I try to place it within the context of my memory. And then, as if on cue, the memories start to flood in, no longer in fragments, but all at once, crashing over me with the force of a tide.. the garden, the argument, the confession, his bedroom, Valarr.
A slow smile begins to form on my lips before I’ve even opened my eyes, and I can instinctively feel him beside me, still mostly asleep, his arm draped softly across my waist beneath the duvet, his face buried somewhere near my shoulder. There is something so absurdly comfortable about the situation, so naturally intimate and unforced, that I find myself fighting the urge to laugh out loud at the sheer improbability of it all.
I have never woken up feeling like this before, never, not after my first time with Aerion, not after moving in together, and certainly not after any of the milestones that society often insists should be profound in a relationship. Because what I am experiencing now doesn’t feel dramatic or momentous, instead, it feels entirely natural, effortless almost, which somehow makes it worse, or perhaps better, though I can no longer tell the difference. The ambiguity of it all leaves me feeling disoriented, caught somewhere between relief and dread, happiness and uncertainty.
The room is silent aside from the faint hum of the air conditioning unit and the distant, awakening sounds of the house downstairs, where the day begins to stir. I am just starting to drift back toward sleep, savoring the slow, peaceful rhythm of the moment, when suddenly, the bedroom door bursts open.
“Valarr, have you seen my-” Matarys’s voice cuts off abruptly, and the silence that follows is immediate. My eyes flicker open, and Valarr’s do the same, both of us frozen, caught in that terrible moment when nothing moves and everything hinges on what comes next.
Matarys stands in the doorway, visibly stunned, while Valarr stares at him with a mixture of surprise and resignation, and I find myself rooted in place, unable to speak or move. Matarys blinks once, then twice, and his eyes widen in shock as he finally processes what he is seeing. His expression shifts, and he blinks again, then exclaims, “What the fuck?”
In my desperation to avoid further humiliation, I immediately close my eyes again, hoping that if I cannot see this scene, perhaps it will somehow cease to exist. Yet, reality persists stubbornly, the moment continues to hang in the air. I hear Matarys’s voice, loud and incredulous, saying, “Oh my God”
“That’s Serena,” he adds with unmistakable certainty, and I want to disappear into the floor.
“Get out,” Valarr’s voice, rough with sleep, interrupts him.
Matarys ignores him completely, pressing on with questions that only deepen my mortification. “You guys had sex?”
I momentarily consider throwing myself out of the window, desperate to escape this nightmare.
“Matarys” I manage to rasp, voice trembling with embarrassment and frustration.
“You actually had sex?” he presses, ignoring my plea.
I repeat, more forcefully, “Get out, please.”
”Sorry, I’m just stunned by-”
A pillow, flying with surprising accuracy, whizzes across the room and strikes him squarely in the chest, as Valarr, in a rare display of agility, hurls it with enough force to make his point. “Get. The fuck. Out” he repeats, voice sharp and commanding.
For a moment, Matarys looks genuinely offended, but then his gaze flickers between us, and something shifts.. no longer mockery or surprise, but a strange, almost satisfied expression, as though he has watched two people circle each other for years and is relieved that one of them has finally developed the basic survival instinct necessary to break the pattern.
A grin spreads across his face, and I immediately know what’s coming.
“Oh,” he murmurs with a grin that I recognize all too well. “I don’t actually need whatever I came in here for,” and then, with a wink that’s practically a dagger, he adds, “I’ve suddenly remembered that I have absolutely no reason to be in this room.”
He begins to back toward the doorway, still grinning, still utterly unrepentant, until, right before he leaves, he shoots a quick, deliberate wink at Valarr. An actual, unmistakable wink. My breath catches, and I feel as if time has momentarily stopped. Valarr’s immediate response is to throw the second pillow in the room with a force that rivals his earlier precision and once the door shuts we are left with silence.
I remain with my face buried in the pillow for another ten seconds, then five, then three, until finally, with painstaking slowness, I lift my head. Valarr is staring at the closed door with a look that suggests he is reconsidering whether fratricide is truly illegal. I start to laugh, an uncontrollable, helpless thing that escapes before I can stop it, the sound loud and unrestrained. Valarr looks at me, and for a moment, he seems determined not to smile, but then, inevitably, he loses the fight.
“That was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” he mutters, voice thick with disbelief.
I laugh harder, the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. “I think I need to move countries,” I manage to say between breaths, my voice trembling with humor and embarrassment.
“Reasonable.”
“I can never look him in the eye again” I add.
His hand finds mine beneath the duvet, a silent gesture of comfort amid the chaos. The laughter begins to fade, replaced gradually by a tide of embarrassment that lingers, but beneath that, there’s something else, something quieter, more fragile. Valarr studies my face carefully, his eyes searching, asking without words how I truly feel. And though I want to pretend everything is fine, I can’t. I look down at our joined hands and realize that reality, stubborn and unyielding, is waiting just outside this room.. Aerion, everything I’ve tried to push aside or forget, all still there, waiting.
I admit softly, “I don’t know,” my voice barely more than a whisper, because I am overwhelmed, uncertain. Valarr doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t rush to fill the silence, but simply waits patiently, and that patience somehow makes it easier to breathe. After a long moment, I speak again, my voice steadier but tinged with vulnerability. “I think I’m happy,” I say quietly, staring down at the blanket, “which is part of the problem.”
He remains silent, listening.
“I should probably feel worse than I do,” I admit, feeling the constriction in my throat. “I feel guilty, I really do, but not because I regret this.. because I don’t.” The words feel ugly, raw and honest, but necessary. “I don’t regret this,” I say firmly, lifting my eyes to meet his. “At all.”
A flicker crosses his face, something more complex than relief or satisfaction, a deeper understanding of what I am trying to say. He knows exactly what I mean without me having to spell it out or at least I hope so. I don’t regret him, but I regret the circumstances that brought us here, the timing that was wrong, the hurt that was caused. Yet, despite all that, I don’t regret him at all. And perhaps, in some strange way, that realization says everything I need it to.
I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of my words settle over me.
“I think I need to go home,” I whisper, the pain in the statement surprising me more than I expected. Not because I want to leave, but because I know I have to because I need time to think, to untangle the chaos I’ve made of my life before dragging anyone else deeper into it. Valarr studies me for a long, thoughtful moment, then simply nods in understanding, offering no argument, no pressure, just silent acceptance.
“Okay,” he says softly, his thumb brushing gently across my knuckles, and in that simple gesture, I find that even leaving becomes infinitely harder.
_______
Valarrs POV
Dropping Serena off proves to be even worse than I had anticipated, and not because the drive itself is uncomfortable or tense.. in fact, the silence that settles between us is almost peaceful, if anything, a strange and fragile kind of comfort that emerges only after crossing a line neither of us can uncross, a boundary now permanently blurred. She sits beside me with the window slightly cracked open, her hair softly moving in the warm summer air, and every so often I catch myself stealing a glance over, just to make sure she is still there, still real, still with me in this fleeting, fragile moment. Because a part of me, a stubborn and unyielding part, still refuses to accept that any of this has actually happened, the last night, the morning that followed, her choosing me over everything else.. and I keep questioning whether I am dreaming, whether this is some cruel illusion I am clinging to.
And yet, as we draw closer to her apartment, a heaviness begins to settle in my chest, a weight that grows more difficult to ignore with each passing second. By the time I finally pull the car to a stop outside the building, it feels as though the heaviness has taken root beneath my ribs, impossible to dismiss or push aside. The apartment. Her apartment. Their apartment. I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, as if holding on to something concrete might stave off the rising tide of discomfort. Serena unbuckles her seatbelt, neither of us speaking immediately, both of us caught in a reluctant silence that stretches uncomfortably as if neither of us wants to be the one to break it.
“I’ll call you later,” she says softly, her voice almost a whisper, a fragile promise that hangs in the air.
I nod, unable to find the words I want to say, and respond simply, “Okay.”
She looks at me for a lingering second, her eyes searching mine for something I can’t quite define, before she leans across the console and kisses me.. gently and enough to make leaving all the more difficult, a tangible reminder of what we have shared. When she pulls away, she offers me a smile, a smile that still feels slightly unreal, as if it belongs to someone else, someone distant and unfamiliar, then she opens the door and steps out.
I watch her walk toward the building, her figure growing smaller as she disappears through the front entrance, the door closing behind her with a definitive click that echoes in my ears. And suddenly, all I can think about, all I can feel, is the ugly, immediate truth.. she’s still tied to him. That thought arrives like a slap, so raw, unfiltered, and unavoidable, not because I believe she’ll return to him or doubt her honesty, but simply because reality is less neat and tidy than the last twenty-four hours have allowed me to pretend.
I sit there for another minute, gripping the steering wheel tightly, feeling the weight of everything settle deeper into my chest, before I finally start the car and begin the journey home. The drive feels longer than it should, an eternity compressed into the few minutes it takes to reach the house, and by the time I pull into the driveway, the euphoria of this morning has been overtaken by something more complex, something that refuses to be neatly labeled.
I walk through the front door, and the house is eerily quiet, almost unnervingly so, until I step into the kitchen and find Matarys sitting at the island, waiting. His presence immediately triggers suspicion, and the moment his eyes meet mine, he straightens, a knowing look already forming.
“There he is,” he says softly, a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. I stop dead in my tracks.
“No,” I manage, voice thick with exhaustion and frustration.
“What do you mean no?” he counters, leaning forward slightly, eyes narrowing with curiosity and something else I can’t quite place.
“I know that look,” I say, voice strained.
“What look?” Matarys presses, genuinely puzzled.
“That look,” I repeat, feeling the weight of the words heavier than before. “You’ve been waiting”
“I’ve been having breakfast,” he ventures, a hint of amusement creeping into his tone.
“There is nothing in front of you”
“Breakfast is a state of mind.”
I close my eyes briefly, exhaling slowly, trying to gather myself. When I open them again, I see that Matarys’s grin has widened, his expression uncharacteristically serious yet somehow gentle.
“How is she?” he asks softly.
“She’s fine,” I answer, voice flat but honest.
“That’s not enough information,” he replies, leaning back in his chair, studying me.
“It’s all you’re getting,” I say firmly, knowing I don’t have the energy to indulge his curiosity anymore.
“Valarr,” he says, a playful yet probing tone.
“Matarys,” I counter.
He narrows his eyes, then leans back further, clearly studying me with an intensity that borders on challenge. And suddenly, he shifts direction, a new question forming. “Was it good? The sex?” he asks, voice almost innocent.
I almost choke on absolutely nothing, an involuntary reaction to the absurdity of the question. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter, voice trembling with disbelief.
“What?” he presses, feigning innocence.
“You cannot ask people that,” I say, trying to keep my composure.
“You’re my brother,” he points out, as if that explains everything.
“Exactly,” I reply, voice edged with annoyance.
“That makes it less weird,” he counters.
“It makes it significantly more weird,” I snap back, frustration bubbling to the surface.
Matarys waves dismissively. “Fine. Let me phrase it differently.”
“No,” I say again, trying to cut him off.
“Was your first time everything you dreamed it would be?” he ventures, voice light but persistent.
“Stop talking,” I say, voice strained.
“Was-”
“I am leaving,” I say, turning toward the doorway.
He points dramatically, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You asked me, when I had my first time,” he says, a little too casually.
I stop, against my better judgment, and turn back. “I what?”
“You interrogated me,” he says, with a grin.
“I did not,” I insist.
“You absolutely did,” he counters. “You wanted details“
“I did not,” I insist.
“You wanted enough details,” he presses.
“I was simply looking out for you like a good brother“ I argue, the only weak argument I can come up with on the spot because in truth I did ask him because I had been curious and I know realize how that backfires.
“You wanted to know if it was good,” he presses, eyes gleaming.
I rub my face, exasperated. “This conversation is over.”
“No, because I answered your questions,” he persists. “Now it’s your turn.”
I laugh once, short, disbelieving, and shake my head. “Absolutely not.” This morning had been embarrassing enough, the last thing I need was discussing the details of my first time with my brother.
“Oh, Valarr.. come on,” he urges, grinning. “Was it good?”
I look at him, searching his face.. insufferable, relentless, and impossible.. my little brother in every possible sense, and despite everything, despite the tangled knot that lives in my chest, a memory surfaces, unbidden but vivid. Serena laughing this morning, her asleep beside me, the way I felt last night, her smiling at me when she got out of the car, the best twenty-four hours of my life. The thought arrives before I can stop it, uninvited but undeniable.
Matarys immediately points, sensing it. “There.”
“What?” I ask, startled.
“That stupid look,” he says, smirking.
I frown, confused. “What stupid look?”
“The one you’re clearly doing right now,” he says softly, eyes gleaming with knowing.
I stare at him, genuinely clueless, but his grin softens, no longer mocking, more gentle, almost pleased and maybe a little relieved. “You love her,” he says quietly, as if confirming something he already knew.
I look away, speechless, because there’s nothing to say. Everyone already knows. Matarys studies me for a long, quiet moment, then, mercifully, lets the subject drop, at least for now.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Fine.”
I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of everything he’s just revealed. “Thank you,” I manage to say.
There’s a pause, a beat of silence that stretches just enough to make everything feel heavier. Then he asks, almost casually, “But just for the record, was it-”
Before he can finish, I grab the nearest dish towel and throw it at his head, and he starts laughing before the towel even makes contact. Despite the ugly, tangled feelings still lurking beneath my ribs, I find myself laughing along with him, an echo of relief, of release, of a moment that, for all its messiness, somehow feels right again.
_____
Serenas POV
The apartment feels wrong the moment I step inside. The sensation arrives before I’ve even managed to close the door behind me, settling somewhere beneath my ribs with a quiet certainty that makes me stand motionless in the hallway, my keys still loosely hanging from my fingers as the silence of the apartment stretches around me, thick and oppressive. Nothing has changed.. the sofa remains exactly where it always is, the shoes by the door are still mine, and the framed photograph from our trip to Brighton still sits on the shelf beside the television. Everything looks exactly the same. Yet I don’t.
Maybe that’s the problem.
I gently drop my bag onto the kitchen counter and walk slowly through the apartment, touching things absentmindedly, without really seeing them, the mug Aerion left beside the sink before he went away, his charger still sitting on the bedside table because he forgot it, the sweatshirt draped over the chair in the corner of the bedroom. Evidence. Little fragments of a life I’ve spent years building, now suddenly feeling like they belong to somebody else entirely.
My chest tightens as I continue, walking into the bathroom. The bathtub is old and slightly too small, the enamel worn around the edges from years of use, yet it has always been my favorite thing about this apartment. Whenever work becomes overwhelming, exams pile up, or life feels unbearable in some way, I take a bath and convince myself that everything is manageable, for at least forty minutes. Today, that feels like an urgent necessity, possibly four hundred minutes’ worth. I turn on the taps, hot water rushing into the tub, steam beginning to gather against the mirror. I stare at my reflection while the bath fills, then look away.
Half an hour later, I am submerged almost to my shoulders, staring at the ceiling as the water cools around me, the quietness almost unbearable. There’s no music, no television, no distraction, nothing but my own thoughts echoing in the silence, and that, it turns out, is a terrible idea. Because the moment I stop moving, everything catches up to me. Aerion, Valarr, last night, this morning, the future.. the impossible, tangled mess of all of it. A shaky breath escapes me, the sound slightly muffled against the bathroom tiles.
For months, if I’m honest, for longer than months, I have been treating this relationship like a problem I could solve if I just tried hard enough. That slow realization arrives, painfully, as if something long submerged has begun surfacing from the depths of my subconscious. Every unpleasant conversation, every canceled plan, every disappointment, every lonely moment masked beneath the guise of being in a relationship, I always found a way to make it my responsibility. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe work is difficult. Maybe I’m too sensitive. Maybe I’m asking for too much. Maybe I should be more understanding. Quieter. Less needy. More patient. The list stretches endlessly, spiraling into a whirl of doubt and guilt.
The water shifts when I move, and suddenly, my eyes sting. I close them, because the worst part is that I genuinely believed it, believed there had to be a reason, an explanation. People don’t just stop loving each other, do they? Something must have gone wrong.. some mistake, some failure, some point where it all unraveled. I spent months searching for that moment, for that one thing that broke us apart, convinced that if I could find it, I might fix it. But I can’t.
I think about the beginning.. about the first months, how Aerion looked at me when we first started dating, how excited he seemed, how easy it all felt. How certain I was that he wanted me, loved me. The memory hurts.. not because it was fake, but because I don’t believe it was. I think he did love me, at least for a time, at least in the beginning. And that makes everything worse. Because if there was a clear lie, a deception, a villain, then maybe I could understand it, accept it, move on. But instead, there’s only an enormous, aching question: what happened?
I don’t know. I truly don’t. I can’t point to a specific moment, a conversation, an argument, a mistake that turned us into two strangers sharing a space and routine, and very little else. The tears arrive quietly, steadily, not in a dramatic outburst but in gentle, relentless streams. I wipe at them impatiently, but more come, blurring the bathroom into a hazy, miserable mess. I let out a miserable laugh because somehow, the thing that hurts most isn’t even losing him. That realization hits hard enough to make me physically flinch. The pain is realizing how long I’ve been unhappy, how long I’ve known, and how much energy I’ve spent convincing myself otherwise. The grief isn’t for the relationship. It’s for the effort, for the months, for the version of myself who kept trying to fix something that wasn’t broken.. except it was.
My throat tightens painfully, and I sink lower into the water, feeling the ache deepen. Then, inevitably, my mind drifts to Valarr. The contrast is immediate, almost cruel, because every time I think of him, of his laugh, the way he always notices when someone needs help, the way he listens when people talk, the way he looked at me this morning.. something inside me becomes lighter. Not guiltless. Not uncomplicated. Just lighter. And that difference feels impossible to ignore.
Nothing about Valarr feels heavy. Yes, complicated. Yes, terrifying. But never heavy. Never exhausting. Never like a burden I carry. My chest hurts again, but for a different reason because the happiness I feel when I think about him is so straightforward, so uncomplicated, that it almost frightens me. Everything with Aerion feels like a weight I’ve been carrying, a burden I’ve been trying to shoulder. But with Valarr, it’s the opposite, it’s something that carries me.
The comparison is unfair, I know.. impossible to ignore, and yet, I can’t help it. I cover my face with both hands, because this is the core of the problem. I know what I want. That isn’t the issue. The issue is what comes next. Aerion is gone for five weeks. Five fucking weeks. The number feels absurd, almost impossible. I could wait. I could tell myself that waiting is the mature, respectful, decent thing to do. I could spend these five weeks pretending nothing happened, pretending I didn’t spend last night in Valarr’s bed, pretending I don’t think about him every few minutes, pretending my entire life hasn’t shifted onto a different axis. But the idea feels impossible.
And yet, there’s the alternative. A text message. A phone call. Breaking up with someone from another country. The thought makes me feel sick because no matter how unhappy I’ve been, no matter how badly things have deteriorated, no matter what happened last night, he deserves better than that. Doesn’t he? The question hangs there, unresolved, unanswered. Every solution feels wrong, every path hurts somebody, every choice leaves me feeling slightly ill. I wipe away another tear, then another, as the water grows lukewarm and I sit there with my knees drawn to my chest, staring at the ceiling, my entire life rearranging itself inside my mind.
One thought keeps returning. I cannot keep being Aerion’s girlfriend. I don’t want to. The certainty settles quietly, not with anger or drama, but with a quiet, unassailable truth. The relationship is over. The only thing left to decide is how to end it, and somehow, that decision feels infinitely harder than I expected.
______
Valarrs POV
My father gets home just after six, the familiar sound of his suitcase wheels rolling softly on the hallway floor. I’m in the kitchen, pretending to be engrossed in an article for a seminar that I’ve now reread three times without retaining a single word. The house hums with quiet normalcy, or at least I try to convince myself it does.
The front door opens, and I hear him call out, “Anyone alive in this house?”
Almost immediately, Matarys appears from somewhere upstairs, as if summoned by the sound of his voice.
“I’m alive,” I reply, voice steady.
“Debatable,” he shoots back with a smirk.
“I walked directly into that,” I admit, amused despite myself.
“You did,” my father responds, stepping into the kitchen, still wearing his work coat and carrying a paper bag that smells suspiciously like expensive takeaway.
He sets it on the counter, his eyes sweeping the room in that familiar parental inspection, like he’s trying to determine whether the house has survived his absence intact.
“Nothing’s on fire,” I say.
“Well, the house seems to have survived this party of yours, though I did trust you of course” he replies with a dry smile.
“The house is basically untouched” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
He considers this for a beat, then disappears toward the garden doors. Moments later, I hear him outside, footsteps crunching on the gravel.
“Valarr.”
I close my eyes, exhaling slowly. “What?”
“Why is there a traffic tire in the pool?”
I look at Matarys, who looks back at me, both of us caught off guard. Neither of us answers immediately.
“That’s a fantastic question, dad” Matarys finally says, voice dry.
“It wasn’t there when I went to bed,” I add, shrugging. “Life is full of mysteries.. perhaps the neighbors.”
My father reappears in the doorway again.
“How,” he asks.
“I genuinely don’t know,” I reply.
“You hosted the party,” he states.
“I was busy hosting,” I respond.
“You failed to notice a tire entering the swimming pool,” he continues, voice deadpan.
“Apparently,” I say and I genuinely cannot remember, but at the same time I had more drinks than I’d ever confess to my father anyway.
He studies my face again, then shakes his head with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “Honestly, that’s on me for expecting answers.”
A few minutes pass as he unpacks the takeaway containers onto the kitchen island, the smell alone enough to draw all three of us into the same room.
“Sit down,” he orders casually.
Both Matarys and I obey without thinking an ingrained habit that’s become embarrassingly automatic.
The conversation begins with the usual discussion of work, university, some upcoming family event, Matarys complaining about a lecturer. The ordinary rhythm of a family dinner that doesn’t happen often enough.
But I notice my father’s gaze flickering to me, lingering just a second longer than usual, and I realize he’s studying me, curiously. He’s trying to read me, I think. Maybe he wants to know if I lied about the tire-
“You seem distracted,” he finally says, voice calm but pointed.
I glance up, feigning innocence. “What?”
“You seem distracted,” he repeats.
“I’m not,” I insist.
“You are,” he presses.
“I’m thinking about a project… upcoming project for a class” I lie smoothly.
“A project,” he echoes skeptically.
“Yes,” I confirm, forcing a smile.
His response is a flat, unconvincing “Hm,” but I know he doesn’t believe me. I focus intently on my food, trying to hide the tension rising between us.
He continues to watch me, silent. Then, unexpectedly, he says, “You seem happy.”
My fork nearly slips from my hand. Across the table, Matarys immediately chokes on his drink, eyes wide with surprise.
I shoot him a warning look, but it only makes him grin wider, relishing the moment.
My father notices the exchange, his gaze shifting between us with that familiar suspicion.
“What?” he asks, voice edged with curiosity.
“Nothing,” I say quickly.
“Nothing,” Matarys echoes, equally unconvincing.
The silence thickens, stretching uncomfortably, until my father finally leans back, calm but alert.
“Okay,” he says, carefully, “one of you knows something.”
“Nope,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Definitely not” Matarys adds, grinning.
“You’ve both become significantly stranger in the last thirty seconds,” he observes, eyes narrowing.
Matarys lowers his head, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. I close my eyes, muttering a silent prayer, before I rub my face with my hand, feeling the weight of his gaze. Across the table, Matarys finally looks up, a mischievous grin creeping onto his face.
The expression is one of pure betrayal, he’s clearly enjoying himself at my expense.
“You know,” he says carefully, “Valarr has had a very eventful weekend.”
“A weekend of significant emotional development” he adds, voice full of mock gravity.
My father frowns, confused now. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly.
“It means nothing,” Matarys confirms.
“Then why are both of you acting like this?”
My father studies us, brows furrowed in suspicion, then finally points at me. “Are you in trouble?”
“No,” I say quickly.
“Are you failing something? Is this about fencing?” he presses.
“No,” I reply.
“Good,” he responds, nodding thoughtfully.
Then, finally, the question hangs in the air. “Are you dating someone?”
The room goes still as I stop moving.
Matarys visibly bites the inside of his cheek, the kind of subtle gesture that says he knows more than he’s letting on.
My father notices immediately.
“Oh God. Are you really?” he exclaims.
“No,” I say quickly.
“That’s the least convincing no I’ve ever heard,” he says, narrowing his eyes.
“You’re imagining things,” I reply, voice tight.
Matarys’s grin widens, dangerous and knowing. I consider throwing a spring roll at him, something to break the tension.
My father points again, eyes sharp. “See? There it is again.”
“What?”
“The face you pull where you look like somebody who’s just been caught,” he says, voice laced with amusement.
“I haven’t been caught doing anything,” I insist.
“Hm,” he responds, still watching, still suspicious.
Finally, he leans back, as if conceding, but I can see the wheels turning, trying to piece together what I’m hiding.He lets it go, at least for now.
___
Our father stays downstairs after dinner, casually scrolling through his emails, mentioning something about a client or a meeting on Tuesday. The details drift away from my mind almost immediately, nothing unusual there.
What doesn’t leave my mind, though, is the moment the study door clicks shut behind him. As soon as it does, Matarys immediately starts grinning again.
I point at him. “Don’t.”
“What?” he says innocently.
“You know exactly what.”
“I’m innocent,” he claims, raising his hands in mock surrender.
I stare at him, unimpressed. He stares back, the grin stubborn. The performance lasts about three seconds before he starts laughing and I hit the back of his head, not hard, just enough to get his attention.
“Ow.”
“That’s for dinner,” I say dryly.
“What did I do?”
“You know what you did.”
“I was incredibly well-behaved,” he protests.
“You practically announced it to him,” I remind him. We’re halfway up the stairs now, and I can already feel a headache forming.
Matarys follows behind me, entirely unrepentant.
“He is never going to figure it out,” he says with a grin.
“He almost did,” I reply. “He asked if I was dating someone,” I add, rubbing my temples.
“That’s a question fathers have been asking their sons since the invention of fathers,” he scoffs.
I stop outside my bedroom door, turn around, and point at him. “Swear to me.”
His grin vanishes instantly, not because he’s offended, but because he knows exactly what I mean. The joking disappears.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he says seriously.
I hold his gaze. “Matarys.”
“I’m serious,” he responds.
“You swear?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation.
Something in my chest eases slightly because beneath all the nonsense and the complete lack of boundaries, my brother is someone I trust deeply and I know that he’d never truly break my trust.
He leans against the wall, folding his arms. “I wouldn’t do that to Serena.”
The answer is so immediate it catches me off guard. Not me. Serena.
I study him for a second with a dumbfound expression.
He shrugs. “What?”
“Well, I was expecting you to say you wouldn’t do it to me,” I admit.
He laughs. “You truly are an idiot. Obviously I wouldn’t do it to you but I wouldn’t want to ruin Serena’s life either. I like her”
“Thank you,” I say, relief flooding me.
“You’re welcome.” A pause. Then he adds, “That said.”
I close my eyes and groan. “Matarys, please.”
“I would love to tell Aerion,” he says with a sly smile.
My eyes snap open at once as horror floods my body. “What the- Matarys!”
“I’m not going to,” he says quickly, raising his hands again. “But I would love to,” he adds with a mischievous grin. “The opportunity to witness that conversation would be extraordinary.”
“For you maybe” I roll my eyes.
“Historic.” He grins, still envisioning it I believe. “Genuinely once in a lifetime,” he presses.
“No,” I insist, voice sharp. “Despite the situation I’m not looking for drama.. I know it’s fucked up but I- I don’t want to cause any more problems for her.”
He sighs dramatically. “You have no appreciation for the arts.”
“I hate you.”
“You really don’t,” he counters with a grin that’s smaller, more thoughtful. “You know what it is?” he asks.
“No.”
“I’m particularly inclined to see his face when he realizes that it’s you… I’m sure he would never guess that in a million years.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
“You know,” he says casually. “Everyone always thinks you’re perfect. You’re basically the star of this family and it’s fine, really, I don’t mind, but as I said, he would never guess that you’re the one stealing away his girlfriend.”
I huff. “Well, thanks, but I want to avoid confrontation at all costs, no matter how entertaining it might be.”
The thought of Aerion finding out doesn’t frighten me, not truly, but I feel protective over Serena’s wellbeing, especially her emotional wellbeing. It’s no secret that Aerion is an asshole and I want no harm to come to her, no matter what he wants to do to me. I push off the wall. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
“Sweet dreams.” He teases as he walks further down the hallway and I open my bedroom door.
“Shut up.” Is all I mumble before I close the door behind me, taking a deep breath.
His laughter echoes down the hallway, along with the quiet, unsettling thought that maybe he’s right. Aerion is going to be fucking furious.
______
Sleep is proving to be difficult, which, unsurprisingly, should not be a surprise at this point. I have spent most of the evening pretending to be a functional human being, which has involved sitting through dinner with my father, surviving Matarys’s relentless curiosity, and answering approximately forty questions without once admitting that every coherent thought in my head has revolved around Serena since the moment I drove away from her apartment this morning. The performance, as it turns out, mostly worked.. at least well enough that my father eventually disappeared upstairs, and Matarys finally stopped hovering around my room, looking for opportunities to be irritating.
Now, the house is silent, the lights are off, and the clock beside my bed reads 12:43, yet I am very much awake. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, which, objectively, is completely and undeniably ridiculous. I am twenty-one years old, not fourteen. I should be capable of spending a single day without behaving like a man who has just discovered that women exist, yet every time I close my eyes, I see her.. the white dress, the garden, the look on her face when she finally stopped pretending, the sound of her laugh, the feeling of her lips and the warmth of her curled against my chest this morning. I open them again, and stare blank at the ceiling again. A sigh escapes me, deep and almost involuntary. Then, despite knowing better, I reach for my phone, my hand trembling just slightly as I do. The screen lights up, but there’s nothing.. no message, not even a notification. Not that I expected there to be- or did I? She did say she’d call me but I guess she might be busy trying to figure out her own mind and feelings, and I cannot blame her for that. I do hope she is okay. I don’t want her sitting in that apartment, crying and feeling guilty and regretting every single moment. I don’t know what she feels or what she’s doing and the truth is that I want to. The temptation arrives immediately, a simple message. Just checking on you. That’s all I want to send. My thumb hovers over the screen, and I consider it carefully, weighing whether or not it might actually help her, or if it would only help me. Because I realize that there’s a significant difference between the two, one that I cannot ignore. The last forty-eight hours have turned her life upside down, leaving her to carry the weight of a relationship ending, to try and figure out what comes next, and to wake up this morning with an entire spectrum of emotions raging inside her.
The last thing she needs is me hovering around, demanding reassurance or expecting her to respond immediately. I put the phone down, feeling a strange mixture of frustration and helplessness. Three seconds pass, then I pick it back up, only to repeat the process.. opening our message thread, then immediately locking the phone again, then unlocking it, then locking it once more, caught in an embarrassing cycle that would surely earn me teasing if Matarys could see me right now. I drop the phone onto my chest and stare at the ceiling again, feeling the weight of my indecision pressing down on me.
The problem isn’t that I don’t trust her, I do, completely. The problem is that wanting to talk to her feels dangerously close to needing to talk to her, and I know that the distinction between the two is crucial. Because I don’t want this to become another burden that she has to carry, another responsibility she must shoulder, or another expectation she is forced to meet. For so long, I’ve wanted something from her that I never dared to ask for, and now that I finally have it, the last thing I want is to be someone who immediately starts demanding more.
A quiet, almost bitter laugh escapes me, the thought of demanding more, of wanting to hear her voice after spending the previous night with her wrapped around me, feels absurd and impossible. The memory arrives without warning.. the weight of her against my side, the way she looked half-asleep this morning, the way she’d buried her face into my shoulder when Matarys walked into my room and nearly had a cardiac event. I smile despite myself, a small, involuntary gesture, and then immediately, I miss her again. Which, of course, is pathetic because it has been less than twelve hours since I last saw her.
I rub a hand over my face, feeling the exhaustion seep into my bones. My phone remains in my hand, the screen dark and the conversation unopened, as if doing so might somehow contain my thoughts. I think about texting her, then about leaving her alone, then about texting Isla instead, immediately rejecting that idea because I would rather die, before considering driving to her apartment, which I dismiss even faster. The silence of the room settles around me, heavy and oppressive.
Finally, I exhale slowly, deliberately, forcing myself to do what I know I need to do. I place the phone on the nightstand, making a conscious choice: tomorrow. If she wants space, she will have it. If she wants time, she will have that. If she needs a week, she will get a week. The thought weighs heavily on me, more than I’d like to admit, because a week sounds awful, but she deserves the choice, and more than that, she deserves the certainty that my feelings for her are not conditional on immediate access.
The room is quiet, the house is quiet, and I close my eyes again, this time deliberately leaving them closed, determined to give myself a moment of peace.
Suddenly, my phone lights up. I open one eye, my gaze falling on the glowing screen from the nightstand. For one ridiculous second, my heart stops- Serena. I reach for it immediately, then pause, staring at it, and I laugh quietly into the darkness because I realize it’s not from her. It’s from Matarys. A single line, sent from somewhere down the hall.
Matarys: Still awake?
I stare at it, then quickly type back.
Me: Unfortunately.
The reply arrives almost instantly.
Matarys: go to sleep, lover boy
I throw the phone onto the mattress in frustration. A second notification appears.
Matarys: and don’t text her.
I close my eyes, feeling the weight of the family’s teasing presence, then another notification.
Matarys: seriously, don’t. if she likes you, she’ll text you.
I groan aloud, the sound muffled into the darkness.
____
Serenas POV
The next morning
By the time I reach Isla’s apartment, I have spent almost forty minutes wandering around the city for absolutely no reason, despite knowing that the bus would have been faster, the tram would have been faster, and even calling a cab would have taken less time than this pointless meandering. Instead, I’ve walked, crossing three different neighborhoods, buying a coffee I forgot to drink, sitting on a bench for ten minutes staring at absolutely nothing, and somehow still arriving here feeling like my thoughts are moving faster than the rest of me, as if I am caught in a race I cannot win.
I stand outside Isla’s building for a moment, unsure whether to knock or just stand there, then I decide to send her a message.
Me: Are you home?
The reply comes almost immediately.
Isla: yeah?
Me: can I come up?
Isla: sure thing, are you okay???
I stare at the screen, feeling a mixture of exhaustion and dread.
Me: no, not really.
Isla: come upstairs right now.
Before I even reach her door, she buzzes me in, and by the time I arrive on her floor, she’s already standing in the hallway, her expression shifting the moment her eyes meet mine.
“Jesus Christ,” she says sharply, her voice filled with concern. “What happened?” she demands, stepping closer.
I open my mouth to answer, but no words come out, and Isla immediately grabs my wrist, pulling me inside her apartment. “Okay, that’s terrifying,” she says, her tone still urgent but softer now.
“I’m fine,” I manage to say, trying to sound convincing.
“No, you’re not,” she counters, her eyes narrowing.
“I’m-” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Serena,” she says, her voice trembling slightly with worry, making something in my chest crack just a little, because I realize she’s genuinely concerned. She pushes me onto the sofa and disappears into the kitchen for a moment, returning thirty seconds later with a mug of tea. I don’t even like tea, but the fact that she made it for me, knowing that I don’t, somehow makes me want to cry.
“Start talking,” she orders, her eyes fixed on me.
I stare into the mug, feeling overwhelmed. “I don’t know where to start,” I admit.
“Try the beginning,” she suggests gently, almost coaxing.
A laugh escapes me, not because anything is funny, but because if I don’t laugh, I might actually lose my mind.
“I slept with Valarr” I finally say, my voice cracking slightly as I reveal the truth, sitting deep in my chest.
The silence that follows is extraordinary, Isla blinks once, then twice, as if trying to process what I just said, before finally asking, “You what?”
I close my eyes, trying to brace myself. “We had sex” I reply quietly.
“Oh my God,” she says softly, her voice almost trembling.
“Yeah,” I echo, nodding.
“Oh my God,” she repeats, her shock palpable.
I nod again, feeling the weight of her reaction settling over me.
“You’re really getting a lot of mileage out of that phrase,” I comment dryly, attempting to inject some humor into the moment.
She stares at me, then points aggressively at me. “You had sex with Valarr?”
“Yes,” I answer simply, trying to read into her reaction.
“The Valarr,” she clarifies, her eyebrows raised.
“Well, there is only one,” I say, trying to keep my tone steady.
“The one you’ve been crushing on for months,” she presses, her voice sharp with incredulity.
I groan, overwhelmed by the situation, and she ignores my reaction.
“Sorry, I meant the one you’ve been pretending not to have a crush on for months” she says, her voice softer but still firm.
“I wasn’t pretending,” I insist, my voice trembling.
“You absolutely were,” she counters. “It was so obvious to everyone-“
I bury my face in my hands, feeling the chaos inside me spilling over, and across from me, Isla exhales a long breath before settling down next to and pulling me close.
“Hey.. it’s okay,” she says quietly.
“But it’s not okay.” I sob into my hands, completely loosing control of my emotions.
She rubs my back in comfort. “I understand it’s a lot to take in at the moment but I do think you’ve already done the hard part.”
“The hard part?” I sniff, looking up and meeting her gaze.
“The.. how do I put it.. the emotional catastrophe” she says, “I know you and you’re not a horrible person and I know you wouldn’t have slept with Valarr if you hadn’t emotionally distanced yourself from Aerion for some time.”
I gulp and let her words sink in. She’s right, I believe. Every thought I’ve given to this had come to the same conclusion.. I haven’t been happy with Aerion for a while now. And I’ve known it for a while too, even if I tried to put these emotions aside for the sake of a relationship that barely even existed. Still, it’s questionable if my emotional distance from my boyfriend makes me less of a prick for cheating.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Isla asks softly.
I sigh and need to give it a few moments because truthfully I can’t even describe it myself.
“It just happened. I know it sounds dumb but.. I well, we had this argument almost and he kissed me and I.. I’ve never felt like this. I’ve never wanted something so bad the way I wanted him in that moment so.. it just happened.”
“okay.” She nods, her voice calm and supportive. “That’s okay…. I mean I can’t lie, you two have been looking at each other like two Victorian widows for the past year.”
Despite everything, a small laugh escapes me, but I quickly suppress it, knowing it’s not helpful.
“That’s not helping,” I say quietly.
“It wasn’t supposed to,” she replies, her smile fading almost immediately because she can see it, whatever is written on my face, whatever is making my chest feel like it’s collapsing under the weight of everything.
“I don’t know what to do,” I confess, my voice quieter than I intended. “I genuinely don’t know what to do.”
Isla doesn’t interrupt or fill the silence with advice, she simply waits patiently, her gaze steady, and I keep talking because I feel like if I stop, I might start crying again.
“Aerion is gone for five weeks,” I mutter, staring down at my tea. “I can’t just pretend nothing happened.”
“No,” Isla agrees softly.
“And I can’t keep seeing Valarr,” I continue, my voice trembling. “Not until.. not right now.”
“No,” she says again, her tone firm but gentle.
“And I can’t stay with Aerion,” I finish, feeling a sharp sting in my chest.
The certainty hurts because every option feels terrible, every choice will hurt someone and hurting someone is the least thing I wish to do.
“I should break up with him.. I know they” I say finally, my voice tense.
“Yes,” she replies immediately, without hesitation.
I laugh bitterly, the sound hollow. “You didn’t even think about that,” I say.
“I have been thinking about that for approximately a year,” she responds calmly.
I look away, my throat tightening, because beneath everything else, Valarr, and the cheating, and the panic, and the confusion, there’s another truth sitting quietly in the background.
“I don’t even know when it happened.” I say.
Isla watches me carefully. “When what happened?” she asks gently.
I swallow hard. “When I stopped being happy,” I whisper, feeling the words settle heavily between us.
“I really loved him,” I confess, voice cracking. “I did.”
“I know,” she says softly.
“I thought he loved me too,” I add softly, feeling the weight of the truth pressing down on me.
The apartment is painfully quiet, as if the silence itself is mourning, because Isla has probably known longer than I have, probably since long before I realized it myself.
“I don’t understand what I did wrong,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
Her expression shifts instantly, concern flickering across her face.
“Serena,” she begins.
“No, seriously,” I cut her off, laughing weakly. “I keep trying to figure it out.”
The words tumble out faster now, desperate. “Maybe I wasn’t supportive enough, or I expected too much, or I complained too much, or maybe-”
“Stop,” she interrupts immediately, her tone sharp but not unkind. “Stop doing that,” she says, her voice gentle but firm.
I stare at her, confused. “Doing what?”
“Taking responsibility for everything,” she clarifies.
I open my mouth, but she doesn’t let me speak.
“You always do this,” she continues.
“I don’t,” I insist.
“You do,” she insists. She leans forward, her eyes intense. “Every time Aerion hurts you, somehow you end up apologizing to yourself.”
I look away, because her words hit too close to the truth I’ve been trying to deny.
“You know what really pisses me off?” she asks quietly.
“What?” I reply softly.
“The fact that you’re sitting here acting like you’re the only person who failed this relationship” she states, her voice edged with something I can’t quite place.. anger, frustration, or maybe both. Something hard enters her tone, not anger directed at me, but anger for me.
“Aerion left for five weeks,” she reminds me, her voice quiet but firm.
I flinch. “He left for five fucking weeks and didn’t even ask if you were okay with it,” she presses.
“Isla-” I try to interrupt.
“He treats you like an accessory, Serena” she continues, her words hitting with force.
They hit hard enough that I feel them deeply. “He assumes you’ll be there.”
My chest tightens.
“He assumes you’ll wait.”
“Stop,” I whisper, voice trembling.
“No,” she says softly but insistently. “I’m sorry, but you need to hear this,” she urges.
I look down at my tea, feeling the weight of her words.
She sighs and then reaches for her phone.
“Did you see what he posted last night?”
“No,” I reply, my voice hesitant.
She opens Instagram, hands me her phone, and I look. Immediately, I wish I hadn’t.
A video. Music. Lights. Drinks. People.
Aerion, in the middle of it all, laughing, having the time of his life. I watch it once, then again, feeling something hurt inside me, not because he’s having fun, but because I probably hadn’t crossed his mind at all. Not once. Not for a second.
Meanwhile, I’ve spent the entire day feeling like my life is collapsing.
“See?” Isla asks softly.
I don’t answer, because I do see, very clearly. Unfortunately.
“He’s been an asshole for so long. He’s self centered and doesn’t care about anyone besides himself and I am so sorry because I know you loved him and you wanted it to work out but the truth is that he never cared about you and he’s the dumbest fuck for treating someone amazing such as yourself the way he did. He brought this to himself and it’s about time, you realize that. It’s about time to realize your own worth. I mean I’ve said this before but he was jealous of Valarr spending time with you, when he didn’t even make time for you himself. It wasn’t love.. it was obsession and possessiveness and you deserve so much better. So so much better. I promise.”
She softly brushes my hair out of my face while the other still rubbed my back. Her words are the last cut to the wound but at the same time, they’re healing. Because I know they’re true. Because I realize what a fucking idiot I was.
The silence stretches, heavy and oppressive, until Isla asks gently. “How was it then?”
I blink, confused. “What?”
Her eyebrows lift. “You know exactly what.. the sex.”
I groan, overwhelmed. “Oh my God.”
“Oh come on. You think I don’t want the details? Well, actually I don’t because it’s Valarr and ew, but I do want to have an overall idea.” she presses with a chuckle, her tone light but persistent.
Despite myself, I laugh, then look down, and the smile slips before I can stop it.
Immediately, Isla points. “There.”
I can feel my cheeks flushing. “I… it was good. Really good. I’ve never felt like this before.”
“That good?” she asks teasingly.
“Isla,” I groan.
“That good?” she repeats, practically falling sideways with laughter.
“It.. was incredible,” I finally admit, my voice almost a whisper. The silence that follows makes me blush even harder.
“You look happier talking about him than I’ve seen you look in months” she observes softly.
That shuts me up immediately because it’s true, so true I can’t deny it. The laughter fades, the room falling into a contemplative quiet once more.
“What are you going to do?” Isla asks gently.
I stare at my tea, then at my phone, then back at the tea, feeling trapped by the only two options available. Five weeks of lying or one terrible, honest text message.
Neither option feels right or fair. Neither feels good, but one of them is honest.
Eventually, I pick up my phone.
My hands tremble slightly as I do, and Isla doesn’t speak or rush me, she just waits patiently, telling me to go with whatever decision feels more right.
I open the messages, my eyes landing on Aerion’s name. My chest tightens painfully because, despite everything, I did love him, maybe part of me still does, just not enough anymore, not in the way he deserves, or in the way I should. My fingers hover over the screen, then begin to type a message that’s simple, truthful, and painfully necessary.
It’s not long, no accusations, no mention of Valarr or what happened, of course, just the ugly truth about our relationship.
Aerion,
I’ve been staring at this message for so long now because I don’t know how to do this properly, and I don’t think there is a proper way.
The truth is that I’ve been unhappy for a long time, and I think, if I’m being honest with myself, you’ve been unhappy for a long time too.
I’ve spent months telling myself that things would get better when uni calmed down, or after exams, or during summer, but I don’t think either of us believes that anymore.
I care about you, and I always will, but I don’t think this relationship is working, and I don’t think it’s fair to either of us to keep pretending that it is.
I’m sorry that I’m doing this while you’re away. I know it’s awful, and I know you probably deserve this conversation in person. I wanted to wait until you came back, but that didn’t feel honest either.
I’m breaking up with you.
I’m sorry.
Serena
I read the message six times, then seven, then eight, feeling my thumb hover uncertainly above the send button, unable to breathe properly.
“Serena,” Isla’s voice is gentle but steady, pulling my attention back. “It’s okay,” she says softly.
I look back down at the screen, at the blinking cursor, at the life I’ve been living, and at the one waiting on the other side of this. Then, before I can lose my nerve, I press send. The message disappears, and for a moment, nothing happens.. no explosion, no ceiling collapse, and the apartment remains standing, my phone still in my hand. And yet, everything feels different, as if a door has quietly closed somewhere behind me, permanently and with rough finality. I stare at the screen, at the tiny word appearing beneath the message- Delivered- and suddenly, I understand that there is no way to take it back.
Pairing: Modern Valarr Targaryen x female OC, Modern Aerion Targaryen x female OC
Word count: 9.7k
Warnings: none.
Summary: friends to lovers. Serena tells herself it's fine; that Aerion will change, that this is what love is supposed to look like. Valarr is determined to prove her wrong, he's just never meant to fall in love with her while doing so.
Previous chapter can be found here
Serenas POV
I wake gradually, emerging from the depths of sleep in a series of slow, deliberate stages rather than all at once, my awareness unfolding piece by piece. Initially, I am conscious only of the comforting warmth enveloping me, and only after a moment do I realize that this warmth has a tangible source. For several seconds, I remain perfectly still, my eyes still closed, suspended somewhere in the liminal space between sleep and wakefulness, while my mind works quietly to assemble the details surrounding me, trying to make sense of the scene that has begun to take shape.
I notice, first and foremost, that the mattress I lie on is not mine, its unfamiliar texture and slight firmness hinting at a place I do not recognize. The room itself is also foreign.. the walls, the faint scent of unfamiliar furniture, all of it signals that I am somewhere else, somewhere that isn’t my usual sanctuary. An arm, warm and solid, rests around my waist, its presence both startling and oddly reassuring as I try to place it within the context of my memory. And then, as if on cue, the memories start to flood in, no longer in fragments, but all at once, crashing over me with the force of a tide.. the garden, the argument, the confession, his bedroom, Valarr.
A slow smile begins to form on my lips before I’ve even opened my eyes, and I can instinctively feel him beside me, still mostly asleep, his arm draped softly across my waist beneath the duvet, his face buried somewhere near my shoulder. There is something so absurdly comfortable about the situation, so naturally intimate and unforced, that I find myself fighting the urge to laugh out loud at the sheer improbability of it all.
I have never woken up feeling like this before, never, not after my first time with Aerion, not after moving in together, and certainly not after any of the milestones that society often insists should be profound in a relationship. Because what I am experiencing now doesn’t feel dramatic or momentous, instead, it feels entirely natural, effortless almost, which somehow makes it worse, or perhaps better, though I can no longer tell the difference. The ambiguity of it all leaves me feeling disoriented, caught somewhere between relief and dread, happiness and uncertainty.
The room is silent aside from the faint hum of the air conditioning unit and the distant, awakening sounds of the house downstairs, where the day begins to stir. I am just starting to drift back toward sleep, savoring the slow, peaceful rhythm of the moment, when suddenly, the bedroom door bursts open.
“Valarr, have you seen my-” Matarys’s voice cuts off abruptly, and the silence that follows is immediate. My eyes flicker open, and Valarr’s do the same, both of us frozen, caught in that terrible moment when nothing moves and everything hinges on what comes next.
Matarys stands in the doorway, visibly stunned, while Valarr stares at him with a mixture of surprise and resignation, and I find myself rooted in place, unable to speak or move. Matarys blinks once, then twice, and his eyes widen in shock as he finally processes what he is seeing. His expression shifts, and he blinks again, then exclaims, “What the fuck?”
In my desperation to avoid further humiliation, I immediately close my eyes again, hoping that if I cannot see this scene, perhaps it will somehow cease to exist. Yet, reality persists stubbornly, the moment continues to hang in the air. I hear Matarys’s voice, loud and incredulous, saying, “Oh my God”
“That’s Serena,” he adds with unmistakable certainty, and I want to disappear into the floor.
“Get out,” Valarr’s voice, rough with sleep, interrupts him.
Matarys ignores him completely, pressing on with questions that only deepen my mortification. “You guys had sex?”
I momentarily consider throwing myself out of the window, desperate to escape this nightmare.
“Matarys” I manage to rasp, voice trembling with embarrassment and frustration.
“You actually had sex?” he presses, ignoring my plea.
I repeat, more forcefully, “Get out, please.”
”Sorry, I’m just stunned by-”
A pillow, flying with surprising accuracy, whizzes across the room and strikes him squarely in the chest, as Valarr, in a rare display of agility, hurls it with enough force to make his point. “Get. The fuck. Out” he repeats, voice sharp and commanding.
For a moment, Matarys looks genuinely offended, but then his gaze flickers between us, and something shifts.. no longer mockery or surprise, but a strange, almost satisfied expression, as though he has watched two people circle each other for years and is relieved that one of them has finally developed the basic survival instinct necessary to break the pattern.
A grin spreads across his face, and I immediately know what’s coming.
“Oh,” he murmurs with a grin that I recognize all too well. “I don’t actually need whatever I came in here for,” and then, with a wink that’s practically a dagger, he adds, “I’ve suddenly remembered that I have absolutely no reason to be in this room.”
He begins to back toward the doorway, still grinning, still utterly unrepentant, until, right before he leaves, he shoots a quick, deliberate wink at Valarr. An actual, unmistakable wink. My breath catches, and I feel as if time has momentarily stopped. Valarr’s immediate response is to throw the second pillow in the room with a force that rivals his earlier precision and once the door shuts we are left with silence.
I remain with my face buried in the pillow for another ten seconds, then five, then three, until finally, with painstaking slowness, I lift my head. Valarr is staring at the closed door with a look that suggests he is reconsidering whether fratricide is truly illegal. I start to laugh, an uncontrollable, helpless thing that escapes before I can stop it, the sound loud and unrestrained. Valarr looks at me, and for a moment, he seems determined not to smile, but then, inevitably, he loses the fight.
“That was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” he mutters, voice thick with disbelief.
I laugh harder, the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. “I think I need to move countries,” I manage to say between breaths, my voice trembling with humor and embarrassment.
“Reasonable.”
“I can never look him in the eye again” I add.
His hand finds mine beneath the duvet, a silent gesture of comfort amid the chaos. The laughter begins to fade, replaced gradually by a tide of embarrassment that lingers, but beneath that, there’s something else, something quieter, more fragile. Valarr studies my face carefully, his eyes searching, asking without words how I truly feel. And though I want to pretend everything is fine, I can’t. I look down at our joined hands and realize that reality, stubborn and unyielding, is waiting just outside this room.. Aerion, everything I’ve tried to push aside or forget, all still there, waiting.
I admit softly, “I don’t know,” my voice barely more than a whisper, because I am overwhelmed, uncertain. Valarr doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t rush to fill the silence, but simply waits patiently, and that patience somehow makes it easier to breathe. After a long moment, I speak again, my voice steadier but tinged with vulnerability. “I think I’m happy,” I say quietly, staring down at the blanket, “which is part of the problem.”
He remains silent, listening.
“I should probably feel worse than I do,” I admit, feeling the constriction in my throat. “I feel guilty, I really do, but not because I regret this.. because I don’t.” The words feel ugly, raw and honest, but necessary. “I don’t regret this,” I say firmly, lifting my eyes to meet his. “At all.”
A flicker crosses his face, something more complex than relief or satisfaction, a deeper understanding of what I am trying to say. He knows exactly what I mean without me having to spell it out or at least I hope so. I don’t regret him, but I regret the circumstances that brought us here, the timing that was wrong, the hurt that was caused. Yet, despite all that, I don’t regret him at all. And perhaps, in some strange way, that realization says everything I need it to.
I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of my words settle over me.
“I think I need to go home,” I whisper, the pain in the statement surprising me more than I expected. Not because I want to leave, but because I know I have to because I need time to think, to untangle the chaos I’ve made of my life before dragging anyone else deeper into it. Valarr studies me for a long, thoughtful moment, then simply nods in understanding, offering no argument, no pressure, just silent acceptance.
“Okay,” he says softly, his thumb brushing gently across my knuckles, and in that simple gesture, I find that even leaving becomes infinitely harder.
_______
Valarrs POV
Dropping Serena off proves to be even worse than I had anticipated, and not because the drive itself is uncomfortable or tense.. in fact, the silence that settles between us is almost peaceful, if anything, a strange and fragile kind of comfort that emerges only after crossing a line neither of us can uncross, a boundary now permanently blurred. She sits beside me with the window slightly cracked open, her hair softly moving in the warm summer air, and every so often I catch myself stealing a glance over, just to make sure she is still there, still real, still with me in this fleeting, fragile moment. Because a part of me, a stubborn and unyielding part, still refuses to accept that any of this has actually happened, the last night, the morning that followed, her choosing me over everything else.. and I keep questioning whether I am dreaming, whether this is some cruel illusion I am clinging to.
And yet, as we draw closer to her apartment, a heaviness begins to settle in my chest, a weight that grows more difficult to ignore with each passing second. By the time I finally pull the car to a stop outside the building, it feels as though the heaviness has taken root beneath my ribs, impossible to dismiss or push aside. The apartment. Her apartment. Their apartment. I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, as if holding on to something concrete might stave off the rising tide of discomfort. Serena unbuckles her seatbelt, neither of us speaking immediately, both of us caught in a reluctant silence that stretches uncomfortably as if neither of us wants to be the one to break it.
“I’ll call you later,” she says softly, her voice almost a whisper, a fragile promise that hangs in the air.
I nod, unable to find the words I want to say, and respond simply, “Okay.”
She looks at me for a lingering second, her eyes searching mine for something I can’t quite define, before she leans across the console and kisses me.. gently and enough to make leaving all the more difficult, a tangible reminder of what we have shared. When she pulls away, she offers me a smile, a smile that still feels slightly unreal, as if it belongs to someone else, someone distant and unfamiliar, then she opens the door and steps out.
I watch her walk toward the building, her figure growing smaller as she disappears through the front entrance, the door closing behind her with a definitive click that echoes in my ears. And suddenly, all I can think about, all I can feel, is the ugly, immediate truth.. she’s still tied to him. That thought arrives like a slap, so raw, unfiltered, and unavoidable, not because I believe she’ll return to him or doubt her honesty, but simply because reality is less neat and tidy than the last twenty-four hours have allowed me to pretend.
I sit there for another minute, gripping the steering wheel tightly, feeling the weight of everything settle deeper into my chest, before I finally start the car and begin the journey home. The drive feels longer than it should, an eternity compressed into the few minutes it takes to reach the house, and by the time I pull into the driveway, the euphoria of this morning has been overtaken by something more complex, something that refuses to be neatly labeled.
I walk through the front door, and the house is eerily quiet, almost unnervingly so, until I step into the kitchen and find Matarys sitting at the island, waiting. His presence immediately triggers suspicion, and the moment his eyes meet mine, he straightens, a knowing look already forming.
“There he is,” he says softly, a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. I stop dead in my tracks.
“No,” I manage, voice thick with exhaustion and frustration.
“What do you mean no?” he counters, leaning forward slightly, eyes narrowing with curiosity and something else I can’t quite place.
“I know that look,” I say, voice strained.
“What look?” Matarys presses, genuinely puzzled.
“That look,” I repeat, feeling the weight of the words heavier than before. “You’ve been waiting”
“I’ve been having breakfast,” he ventures, a hint of amusement creeping into his tone.
“There is nothing in front of you”
“Breakfast is a state of mind.”
I close my eyes briefly, exhaling slowly, trying to gather myself. When I open them again, I see that Matarys’s grin has widened, his expression uncharacteristically serious yet somehow gentle.
“How is she?” he asks softly.
“She’s fine,” I answer, voice flat but honest.
“That’s not enough information,” he replies, leaning back in his chair, studying me.
“It’s all you’re getting,” I say firmly, knowing I don’t have the energy to indulge his curiosity anymore.
“Valarr,” he says, a playful yet probing tone.
“Matarys,” I counter.
He narrows his eyes, then leans back further, clearly studying me with an intensity that borders on challenge. And suddenly, he shifts direction, a new question forming. “Was it good? The sex?” he asks, voice almost innocent.
I almost choke on absolutely nothing, an involuntary reaction to the absurdity of the question. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter, voice trembling with disbelief.
“What?” he presses, feigning innocence.
“You cannot ask people that,” I say, trying to keep my composure.
“You’re my brother,” he points out, as if that explains everything.
“Exactly,” I reply, voice edged with annoyance.
“That makes it less weird,” he counters.
“It makes it significantly more weird,” I snap back, frustration bubbling to the surface.
Matarys waves dismissively. “Fine. Let me phrase it differently.”
“No,” I say again, trying to cut him off.
“Was your first time everything you dreamed it would be?” he ventures, voice light but persistent.
“Stop talking,” I say, voice strained.
“Was-”
“I am leaving,” I say, turning toward the doorway.
He points dramatically, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You asked me, when I had my first time,” he says, a little too casually.
I stop, against my better judgment, and turn back. “I what?”
“You interrogated me,” he says, with a grin.
“I did not,” I insist.
“You absolutely did,” he counters. “You wanted details“
“I did not,” I insist.
“You wanted enough details,” he presses.
“I was simply looking out for you like a good brother“ I argue, the only weak argument I can come up with on the spot because in truth I did ask him because I had been curious and I know realize how that backfires.
“You wanted to know if it was good,” he presses, eyes gleaming.
I rub my face, exasperated. “This conversation is over.”
“No, because I answered your questions,” he persists. “Now it’s your turn.”
I laugh once, short, disbelieving, and shake my head. “Absolutely not.” This morning had been embarrassing enough, the last thing I need was discussing the details of my first time with my brother.
“Oh, Valarr.. come on,” he urges, grinning. “Was it good?”
I look at him, searching his face.. insufferable, relentless, and impossible.. my little brother in every possible sense, and despite everything, despite the tangled knot that lives in my chest, a memory surfaces, unbidden but vivid. Serena laughing this morning, her asleep beside me, the way I felt last night, her smiling at me when she got out of the car, the best twenty-four hours of my life. The thought arrives before I can stop it, uninvited but undeniable.
Matarys immediately points, sensing it. “There.”
“What?” I ask, startled.
“That stupid look,” he says, smirking.
I frown, confused. “What stupid look?”
“The one you’re clearly doing right now,” he says softly, eyes gleaming with knowing.
I stare at him, genuinely clueless, but his grin softens, no longer mocking, more gentle, almost pleased and maybe a little relieved. “You love her,” he says quietly, as if confirming something he already knew.
I look away, speechless, because there’s nothing to say. Everyone already knows. Matarys studies me for a long, quiet moment, then, mercifully, lets the subject drop, at least for now.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Fine.”
I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of everything he’s just revealed. “Thank you,” I manage to say.
There’s a pause, a beat of silence that stretches just enough to make everything feel heavier. Then he asks, almost casually, “But just for the record, was it-”
Before he can finish, I grab the nearest dish towel and throw it at his head, and he starts laughing before the towel even makes contact. Despite the ugly, tangled feelings still lurking beneath my ribs, I find myself laughing along with him, an echo of relief, of release, of a moment that, for all its messiness, somehow feels right again.
_____
Serenas POV
The apartment feels wrong the moment I step inside. The sensation arrives before I’ve even managed to close the door behind me, settling somewhere beneath my ribs with a quiet certainty that makes me stand motionless in the hallway, my keys still loosely hanging from my fingers as the silence of the apartment stretches around me, thick and oppressive. Nothing has changed.. the sofa remains exactly where it always is, the shoes by the door are still mine, and the framed photograph from our trip to Brighton still sits on the shelf beside the television. Everything looks exactly the same. Yet I don’t.
Maybe that’s the problem.
I gently drop my bag onto the kitchen counter and walk slowly through the apartment, touching things absentmindedly, without really seeing them, the mug Aerion left beside the sink before he went away, his charger still sitting on the bedside table because he forgot it, the sweatshirt draped over the chair in the corner of the bedroom. Evidence. Little fragments of a life I’ve spent years building, now suddenly feeling like they belong to somebody else entirely.
My chest tightens as I continue, walking into the bathroom. The bathtub is old and slightly too small, the enamel worn around the edges from years of use, yet it has always been my favorite thing about this apartment. Whenever work becomes overwhelming, exams pile up, or life feels unbearable in some way, I take a bath and convince myself that everything is manageable, for at least forty minutes. Today, that feels like an urgent necessity, possibly four hundred minutes’ worth. I turn on the taps, hot water rushing into the tub, steam beginning to gather against the mirror. I stare at my reflection while the bath fills, then look away.
Half an hour later, I am submerged almost to my shoulders, staring at the ceiling as the water cools around me, the quietness almost unbearable. There’s no music, no television, no distraction, nothing but my own thoughts echoing in the silence, and that, it turns out, is a terrible idea. Because the moment I stop moving, everything catches up to me. Aerion, Valarr, last night, this morning, the future.. the impossible, tangled mess of all of it. A shaky breath escapes me, the sound slightly muffled against the bathroom tiles.
For months, if I’m honest, for longer than months, I have been treating this relationship like a problem I could solve if I just tried hard enough. That slow realization arrives, painfully, as if something long submerged has begun surfacing from the depths of my subconscious. Every unpleasant conversation, every canceled plan, every disappointment, every lonely moment masked beneath the guise of being in a relationship, I always found a way to make it my responsibility. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe work is difficult. Maybe I’m too sensitive. Maybe I’m asking for too much. Maybe I should be more understanding. Quieter. Less needy. More patient. The list stretches endlessly, spiraling into a whirl of doubt and guilt.
The water shifts when I move, and suddenly, my eyes sting. I close them, because the worst part is that I genuinely believed it, believed there had to be a reason, an explanation. People don’t just stop loving each other, do they? Something must have gone wrong.. some mistake, some failure, some point where it all unraveled. I spent months searching for that moment, for that one thing that broke us apart, convinced that if I could find it, I might fix it. But I can’t.
I think about the beginning.. about the first months, how Aerion looked at me when we first started dating, how excited he seemed, how easy it all felt. How certain I was that he wanted me, loved me. The memory hurts.. not because it was fake, but because I don’t believe it was. I think he did love me, at least for a time, at least in the beginning. And that makes everything worse. Because if there was a clear lie, a deception, a villain, then maybe I could understand it, accept it, move on. But instead, there’s only an enormous, aching question: what happened?
I don’t know. I truly don’t. I can’t point to a specific moment, a conversation, an argument, a mistake that turned us into two strangers sharing a space and routine, and very little else. The tears arrive quietly, steadily, not in a dramatic outburst but in gentle, relentless streams. I wipe at them impatiently, but more come, blurring the bathroom into a hazy, miserable mess. I let out a miserable laugh because somehow, the thing that hurts most isn’t even losing him. That realization hits hard enough to make me physically flinch. The pain is realizing how long I’ve been unhappy, how long I’ve known, and how much energy I’ve spent convincing myself otherwise. The grief isn’t for the relationship. It’s for the effort, for the months, for the version of myself who kept trying to fix something that wasn’t broken.. except it was.
My throat tightens painfully, and I sink lower into the water, feeling the ache deepen. Then, inevitably, my mind drifts to Valarr. The contrast is immediate, almost cruel, because every time I think of him, of his laugh, the way he always notices when someone needs help, the way he listens when people talk, the way he looked at me this morning.. something inside me becomes lighter. Not guiltless. Not uncomplicated. Just lighter. And that difference feels impossible to ignore.
Nothing about Valarr feels heavy. Yes, complicated. Yes, terrifying. But never heavy. Never exhausting. Never like a burden I carry. My chest hurts again, but for a different reason because the happiness I feel when I think about him is so straightforward, so uncomplicated, that it almost frightens me. Everything with Aerion feels like a weight I’ve been carrying, a burden I’ve been trying to shoulder. But with Valarr, it’s the opposite, it’s something that carries me.
The comparison is unfair, I know.. impossible to ignore, and yet, I can’t help it. I cover my face with both hands, because this is the core of the problem. I know what I want. That isn’t the issue. The issue is what comes next. Aerion is gone for five weeks. Five fucking weeks. The number feels absurd, almost impossible. I could wait. I could tell myself that waiting is the mature, respectful, decent thing to do. I could spend these five weeks pretending nothing happened, pretending I didn’t spend last night in Valarr’s bed, pretending I don’t think about him every few minutes, pretending my entire life hasn’t shifted onto a different axis. But the idea feels impossible.
And yet, there’s the alternative. A text message. A phone call. Breaking up with someone from another country. The thought makes me feel sick because no matter how unhappy I’ve been, no matter how badly things have deteriorated, no matter what happened last night, he deserves better than that. Doesn’t he? The question hangs there, unresolved, unanswered. Every solution feels wrong, every path hurts somebody, every choice leaves me feeling slightly ill. I wipe away another tear, then another, as the water grows lukewarm and I sit there with my knees drawn to my chest, staring at the ceiling, my entire life rearranging itself inside my mind.
One thought keeps returning. I cannot keep being Aerion’s girlfriend. I don’t want to. The certainty settles quietly, not with anger or drama, but with a quiet, unassailable truth. The relationship is over. The only thing left to decide is how to end it, and somehow, that decision feels infinitely harder than I expected.
______
Valarrs POV
My father gets home just after six, the familiar sound of his suitcase wheels rolling softly on the hallway floor. I’m in the kitchen, pretending to be engrossed in an article for a seminar that I’ve now reread three times without retaining a single word. The house hums with quiet normalcy, or at least I try to convince myself it does.
The front door opens, and I hear him call out, “Anyone alive in this house?”
Almost immediately, Matarys appears from somewhere upstairs, as if summoned by the sound of his voice.
“I’m alive,” I reply, voice steady.
“Debatable,” he shoots back with a smirk.
“I walked directly into that,” I admit, amused despite myself.
“You did,” my father responds, stepping into the kitchen, still wearing his work coat and carrying a paper bag that smells suspiciously like expensive takeaway.
He sets it on the counter, his eyes sweeping the room in that familiar parental inspection, like he’s trying to determine whether the house has survived his absence intact.
“Nothing’s on fire,” I say.
“Well, the house seems to have survived this party of yours, though I did trust you of course” he replies with a dry smile.
“The house is basically untouched” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
He considers this for a beat, then disappears toward the garden doors. Moments later, I hear him outside, footsteps crunching on the gravel.
“Valarr.”
I close my eyes, exhaling slowly. “What?”
“Why is there a traffic tire in the pool?”
I look at Matarys, who looks back at me, both of us caught off guard. Neither of us answers immediately.
“That’s a fantastic question, dad” Matarys finally says, voice dry.
“It wasn’t there when I went to bed,” I add, shrugging. “Life is full of mysteries.. perhaps the neighbors.”
My father reappears in the doorway again.
“How,” he asks.
“I genuinely don’t know,” I reply.
“You hosted the party,” he states.
“I was busy hosting,” I respond.
“You failed to notice a tire entering the swimming pool,” he continues, voice deadpan.
“Apparently,” I say and I genuinely cannot remember, but at the same time I had more drinks than I’d ever confess to my father anyway.
He studies my face again, then shakes his head with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “Honestly, that’s on me for expecting answers.”
A few minutes pass as he unpacks the takeaway containers onto the kitchen island, the smell alone enough to draw all three of us into the same room.
“Sit down,” he orders casually.
Both Matarys and I obey without thinking an ingrained habit that’s become embarrassingly automatic.
The conversation begins with the usual discussion of work, university, some upcoming family event, Matarys complaining about a lecturer. The ordinary rhythm of a family dinner that doesn’t happen often enough.
But I notice my father’s gaze flickering to me, lingering just a second longer than usual, and I realize he’s studying me, curiously. He’s trying to read me, I think. Maybe he wants to know if I lied about the tire-
“You seem distracted,” he finally says, voice calm but pointed.
I glance up, feigning innocence. “What?”
“You seem distracted,” he repeats.
“I’m not,” I insist.
“You are,” he presses.
“I’m thinking about a project… upcoming project for a class” I lie smoothly.
“A project,” he echoes skeptically.
“Yes,” I confirm, forcing a smile.
His response is a flat, unconvincing “Hm,” but I know he doesn’t believe me. I focus intently on my food, trying to hide the tension rising between us.
He continues to watch me, silent. Then, unexpectedly, he says, “You seem happy.”
My fork nearly slips from my hand. Across the table, Matarys immediately chokes on his drink, eyes wide with surprise.
I shoot him a warning look, but it only makes him grin wider, relishing the moment.
My father notices the exchange, his gaze shifting between us with that familiar suspicion.
“What?” he asks, voice edged with curiosity.
“Nothing,” I say quickly.
“Nothing,” Matarys echoes, equally unconvincing.
The silence thickens, stretching uncomfortably, until my father finally leans back, calm but alert.
“Okay,” he says, carefully, “one of you knows something.”
“Nope,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Definitely not” Matarys adds, grinning.
“You’ve both become significantly stranger in the last thirty seconds,” he observes, eyes narrowing.
Matarys lowers his head, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. I close my eyes, muttering a silent prayer, before I rub my face with my hand, feeling the weight of his gaze. Across the table, Matarys finally looks up, a mischievous grin creeping onto his face.
The expression is one of pure betrayal, he’s clearly enjoying himself at my expense.
“You know,” he says carefully, “Valarr has had a very eventful weekend.”
“A weekend of significant emotional development” he adds, voice full of mock gravity.
My father frowns, confused now. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly.
“It means nothing,” Matarys confirms.
“Then why are both of you acting like this?”
My father studies us, brows furrowed in suspicion, then finally points at me. “Are you in trouble?”
“No,” I say quickly.
“Are you failing something? Is this about fencing?” he presses.
“No,” I reply.
“Good,” he responds, nodding thoughtfully.
Then, finally, the question hangs in the air. “Are you dating someone?”
The room goes still as I stop moving.
Matarys visibly bites the inside of his cheek, the kind of subtle gesture that says he knows more than he’s letting on.
My father notices immediately.
“Oh God. Are you really?” he exclaims.
“No,” I say quickly.
“That’s the least convincing no I’ve ever heard,” he says, narrowing his eyes.
“You’re imagining things,” I reply, voice tight.
Matarys’s grin widens, dangerous and knowing. I consider throwing a spring roll at him, something to break the tension.
My father points again, eyes sharp. “See? There it is again.”
“What?”
“The face you pull where you look like somebody who’s just been caught,” he says, voice laced with amusement.
“I haven’t been caught doing anything,” I insist.
“Hm,” he responds, still watching, still suspicious.
Finally, he leans back, as if conceding, but I can see the wheels turning, trying to piece together what I’m hiding.He lets it go, at least for now.
___
Our father stays downstairs after dinner, casually scrolling through his emails, mentioning something about a client or a meeting on Tuesday. The details drift away from my mind almost immediately, nothing unusual there.
What doesn’t leave my mind, though, is the moment the study door clicks shut behind him. As soon as it does, Matarys immediately starts grinning again.
I point at him. “Don’t.”
“What?” he says innocently.
“You know exactly what.”
“I’m innocent,” he claims, raising his hands in mock surrender.
I stare at him, unimpressed. He stares back, the grin stubborn. The performance lasts about three seconds before he starts laughing and I hit the back of his head, not hard, just enough to get his attention.
“Ow.”
“That’s for dinner,” I say dryly.
“What did I do?”
“You know what you did.”
“I was incredibly well-behaved,” he protests.
“You practically announced it to him,” I remind him. We’re halfway up the stairs now, and I can already feel a headache forming.
Matarys follows behind me, entirely unrepentant.
“He is never going to figure it out,” he says with a grin.
“He almost did,” I reply. “He asked if I was dating someone,” I add, rubbing my temples.
“That’s a question fathers have been asking their sons since the invention of fathers,” he scoffs.
I stop outside my bedroom door, turn around, and point at him. “Swear to me.”
His grin vanishes instantly, not because he’s offended, but because he knows exactly what I mean. The joking disappears.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he says seriously.
I hold his gaze. “Matarys.”
“I’m serious,” he responds.
“You swear?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation.
Something in my chest eases slightly because beneath all the nonsense and the complete lack of boundaries, my brother is someone I trust deeply and I know that he’d never truly break my trust.
He leans against the wall, folding his arms. “I wouldn’t do that to Serena.”
The answer is so immediate it catches me off guard. Not me. Serena.
I study him for a second with a dumbfound expression.
He shrugs. “What?”
“Well, I was expecting you to say you wouldn’t do it to me,” I admit.
He laughs. “You truly are an idiot. Obviously I wouldn’t do it to you but I wouldn’t want to ruin Serena’s life either. I like her”
“Thank you,” I say, relief flooding me.
“You’re welcome.” A pause. Then he adds, “That said.”
I close my eyes and groan. “Matarys, please.”
“I would love to tell Aerion,” he says with a sly smile.
My eyes snap open at once as horror floods my body. “What the- Matarys!”
“I’m not going to,” he says quickly, raising his hands again. “But I would love to,” he adds with a mischievous grin. “The opportunity to witness that conversation would be extraordinary.”
“For you maybe” I roll my eyes.
“Historic.” He grins, still envisioning it I believe. “Genuinely once in a lifetime,” he presses.
“No,” I insist, voice sharp. “Despite the situation I’m not looking for drama.. I know it’s fucked up but I- I don’t want to cause any more problems for her.”
He sighs dramatically. “You have no appreciation for the arts.”
“I hate you.”
“You really don’t,” he counters with a grin that’s smaller, more thoughtful. “You know what it is?” he asks.
“No.”
“I’m particularly inclined to see his face when he realizes that it’s you… I’m sure he would never guess that in a million years.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
“You know,” he says casually. “Everyone always thinks you’re perfect. You’re basically the star of this family and it’s fine, really, I don’t mind, but as I said, he would never guess that you’re the one stealing away his girlfriend.”
I huff. “Well, thanks, but I want to avoid confrontation at all costs, no matter how entertaining it might be.”
The thought of Aerion finding out doesn’t frighten me, not truly, but I feel protective over Serena’s wellbeing, especially her emotional wellbeing. It’s no secret that Aerion is an asshole and I want no harm to come to her, no matter what he wants to do to me. I push off the wall. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
“Sweet dreams.” He teases as he walks further down the hallway and I open my bedroom door.
“Shut up.” Is all I mumble before I close the door behind me, taking a deep breath.
His laughter echoes down the hallway, along with the quiet, unsettling thought that maybe he’s right. Aerion is going to be fucking furious.
______
Sleep is proving to be difficult, which, unsurprisingly, should not be a surprise at this point. I have spent most of the evening pretending to be a functional human being, which has involved sitting through dinner with my father, surviving Matarys’s relentless curiosity, and answering approximately forty questions without once admitting that every coherent thought in my head has revolved around Serena since the moment I drove away from her apartment this morning. The performance, as it turns out, mostly worked.. at least well enough that my father eventually disappeared upstairs, and Matarys finally stopped hovering around my room, looking for opportunities to be irritating.
Now, the house is silent, the lights are off, and the clock beside my bed reads 12:43, yet I am very much awake. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, which, objectively, is completely and undeniably ridiculous. I am twenty-one years old, not fourteen. I should be capable of spending a single day without behaving like a man who has just discovered that women exist, yet every time I close my eyes, I see her.. the white dress, the garden, the look on her face when she finally stopped pretending, the sound of her laugh, the feeling of her lips and the warmth of her curled against my chest this morning. I open them again, and stare blank at the ceiling again. A sigh escapes me, deep and almost involuntary. Then, despite knowing better, I reach for my phone, my hand trembling just slightly as I do. The screen lights up, but there’s nothing.. no message, not even a notification. Not that I expected there to be- or did I? She did say she’d call me but I guess she might be busy trying to figure out her own mind and feelings, and I cannot blame her for that. I do hope she is okay. I don’t want her sitting in that apartment, crying and feeling guilty and regretting every single moment. I don’t know what she feels or what she’s doing and the truth is that I want to. The temptation arrives immediately, a simple message. Just checking on you. That’s all I want to send. My thumb hovers over the screen, and I consider it carefully, weighing whether or not it might actually help her, or if it would only help me. Because I realize that there’s a significant difference between the two, one that I cannot ignore. The last forty-eight hours have turned her life upside down, leaving her to carry the weight of a relationship ending, to try and figure out what comes next, and to wake up this morning with an entire spectrum of emotions raging inside her.
The last thing she needs is me hovering around, demanding reassurance or expecting her to respond immediately. I put the phone down, feeling a strange mixture of frustration and helplessness. Three seconds pass, then I pick it back up, only to repeat the process.. opening our message thread, then immediately locking the phone again, then unlocking it, then locking it once more, caught in an embarrassing cycle that would surely earn me teasing if Matarys could see me right now. I drop the phone onto my chest and stare at the ceiling again, feeling the weight of my indecision pressing down on me.
The problem isn’t that I don’t trust her, I do, completely. The problem is that wanting to talk to her feels dangerously close to needing to talk to her, and I know that the distinction between the two is crucial. Because I don’t want this to become another burden that she has to carry, another responsibility she must shoulder, or another expectation she is forced to meet. For so long, I’ve wanted something from her that I never dared to ask for, and now that I finally have it, the last thing I want is to be someone who immediately starts demanding more.
A quiet, almost bitter laugh escapes me, the thought of demanding more, of wanting to hear her voice after spending the previous night with her wrapped around me, feels absurd and impossible. The memory arrives without warning.. the weight of her against my side, the way she looked half-asleep this morning, the way she’d buried her face into my shoulder when Matarys walked into my room and nearly had a cardiac event. I smile despite myself, a small, involuntary gesture, and then immediately, I miss her again. Which, of course, is pathetic because it has been less than twelve hours since I last saw her.
I rub a hand over my face, feeling the exhaustion seep into my bones. My phone remains in my hand, the screen dark and the conversation unopened, as if doing so might somehow contain my thoughts. I think about texting her, then about leaving her alone, then about texting Isla instead, immediately rejecting that idea because I would rather die, before considering driving to her apartment, which I dismiss even faster. The silence of the room settles around me, heavy and oppressive.
Finally, I exhale slowly, deliberately, forcing myself to do what I know I need to do. I place the phone on the nightstand, making a conscious choice: tomorrow. If she wants space, she will have it. If she wants time, she will have that. If she needs a week, she will get a week. The thought weighs heavily on me, more than I’d like to admit, because a week sounds awful, but she deserves the choice, and more than that, she deserves the certainty that my feelings for her are not conditional on immediate access.
The room is quiet, the house is quiet, and I close my eyes again, this time deliberately leaving them closed, determined to give myself a moment of peace.
Suddenly, my phone lights up. I open one eye, my gaze falling on the glowing screen from the nightstand. For one ridiculous second, my heart stops- Serena. I reach for it immediately, then pause, staring at it, and I laugh quietly into the darkness because I realize it’s not from her. It’s from Matarys. A single line, sent from somewhere down the hall.
Matarys: Still awake?
I stare at it, then quickly type back.
Me: Unfortunately.
The reply arrives almost instantly.
Matarys: go to sleep, lover boy
I throw the phone onto the mattress in frustration. A second notification appears.
Matarys: and don’t text her.
I close my eyes, feeling the weight of the family’s teasing presence, then another notification.
Matarys: seriously, don’t. if she likes you, she’ll text you.
I groan aloud, the sound muffled into the darkness.
____
Serenas POV
The next morning
By the time I reach Isla’s apartment, I have spent almost forty minutes wandering around the city for absolutely no reason, despite knowing that the bus would have been faster, the tram would have been faster, and even calling a cab would have taken less time than this pointless meandering. Instead, I’ve walked, crossing three different neighborhoods, buying a coffee I forgot to drink, sitting on a bench for ten minutes staring at absolutely nothing, and somehow still arriving here feeling like my thoughts are moving faster than the rest of me, as if I am caught in a race I cannot win.
I stand outside Isla’s building for a moment, unsure whether to knock or just stand there, then I decide to send her a message.
Me: Are you home?
The reply comes almost immediately.
Isla: yeah?
Me: can I come up?
Isla: sure thing, are you okay???
I stare at the screen, feeling a mixture of exhaustion and dread.
Me: no, not really.
Isla: come upstairs right now.
Before I even reach her door, she buzzes me in, and by the time I arrive on her floor, she’s already standing in the hallway, her expression shifting the moment her eyes meet mine.
“Jesus Christ,” she says sharply, her voice filled with concern. “What happened?” she demands, stepping closer.
I open my mouth to answer, but no words come out, and Isla immediately grabs my wrist, pulling me inside her apartment. “Okay, that’s terrifying,” she says, her tone still urgent but softer now.
“I’m fine,” I manage to say, trying to sound convincing.
“No, you’re not,” she counters, her eyes narrowing.
“I’m-” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Serena,” she says, her voice trembling slightly with worry, making something in my chest crack just a little, because I realize she’s genuinely concerned. She pushes me onto the sofa and disappears into the kitchen for a moment, returning thirty seconds later with a mug of tea. I don’t even like tea, but the fact that she made it for me, knowing that I don’t, somehow makes me want to cry.
“Start talking,” she orders, her eyes fixed on me.
I stare into the mug, feeling overwhelmed. “I don’t know where to start,” I admit.
“Try the beginning,” she suggests gently, almost coaxing.
A laugh escapes me, not because anything is funny, but because if I don’t laugh, I might actually lose my mind.
“I slept with Valarr” I finally say, my voice cracking slightly as I reveal the truth, sitting deep in my chest.
The silence that follows is extraordinary, Isla blinks once, then twice, as if trying to process what I just said, before finally asking, “You what?”
I close my eyes, trying to brace myself. “We had sex” I reply quietly.
“Oh my God,” she says softly, her voice almost trembling.
“Yeah,” I echo, nodding.
“Oh my God,” she repeats, her shock palpable.
I nod again, feeling the weight of her reaction settling over me.
“You’re really getting a lot of mileage out of that phrase,” I comment dryly, attempting to inject some humor into the moment.
She stares at me, then points aggressively at me. “You had sex with Valarr?”
“Yes,” I answer simply, trying to read into her reaction.
“The Valarr,” she clarifies, her eyebrows raised.
“Well, there is only one,” I say, trying to keep my tone steady.
“The one you’ve been crushing on for months,” she presses, her voice sharp with incredulity.
I groan, overwhelmed by the situation, and she ignores my reaction.
“Sorry, I meant the one you’ve been pretending not to have a crush on for months” she says, her voice softer but still firm.
“I wasn’t pretending,” I insist, my voice trembling.
“You absolutely were,” she counters. “It was so obvious to everyone-“
I bury my face in my hands, feeling the chaos inside me spilling over, and across from me, Isla exhales a long breath before settling down next to and pulling me close.
“Hey.. it’s okay,” she says quietly.
“But it’s not okay.” I sob into my hands, completely loosing control of my emotions.
She rubs my back in comfort. “I understand it’s a lot to take in at the moment but I do think you’ve already done the hard part.”
“The hard part?” I sniff, looking up and meeting her gaze.
“The.. how do I put it.. the emotional catastrophe” she says, “I know you and you’re not a horrible person and I know you wouldn’t have slept with Valarr if you hadn’t emotionally distanced yourself from Aerion for some time.”
I gulp and let her words sink in. She’s right, I believe. Every thought I’ve given to this had come to the same conclusion.. I haven’t been happy with Aerion for a while now. And I’ve known it for a while too, even if I tried to put these emotions aside for the sake of a relationship that barely even existed. Still, it’s questionable if my emotional distance from my boyfriend makes me less of a prick for cheating.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Isla asks softly.
I sigh and need to give it a few moments because truthfully I can’t even describe it myself.
“It just happened. I know it sounds dumb but.. I well, we had this argument almost and he kissed me and I.. I’ve never felt like this. I’ve never wanted something so bad the way I wanted him in that moment so.. it just happened.”
“okay.” She nods, her voice calm and supportive. “That’s okay…. I mean I can’t lie, you two have been looking at each other like two Victorian widows for the past year.”
Despite everything, a small laugh escapes me, but I quickly suppress it, knowing it’s not helpful.
“That’s not helping,” I say quietly.
“It wasn’t supposed to,” she replies, her smile fading almost immediately because she can see it, whatever is written on my face, whatever is making my chest feel like it’s collapsing under the weight of everything.
“I don’t know what to do,” I confess, my voice quieter than I intended. “I genuinely don’t know what to do.”
Isla doesn’t interrupt or fill the silence with advice, she simply waits patiently, her gaze steady, and I keep talking because I feel like if I stop, I might start crying again.
“Aerion is gone for five weeks,” I mutter, staring down at my tea. “I can’t just pretend nothing happened.”
“No,” Isla agrees softly.
“And I can’t keep seeing Valarr,” I continue, my voice trembling. “Not until.. not right now.”
“No,” she says again, her tone firm but gentle.
“And I can’t stay with Aerion,” I finish, feeling a sharp sting in my chest.
The certainty hurts because every option feels terrible, every choice will hurt someone and hurting someone is the least thing I wish to do.
“I should break up with him.. I know they” I say finally, my voice tense.
“Yes,” she replies immediately, without hesitation.
I laugh bitterly, the sound hollow. “You didn’t even think about that,” I say.
“I have been thinking about that for approximately a year,” she responds calmly.
I look away, my throat tightening, because beneath everything else, Valarr, and the cheating, and the panic, and the confusion, there’s another truth sitting quietly in the background.
“I don’t even know when it happened.” I say.
Isla watches me carefully. “When what happened?” she asks gently.
I swallow hard. “When I stopped being happy,” I whisper, feeling the words settle heavily between us.
“I really loved him,” I confess, voice cracking. “I did.”
“I know,” she says softly.
“I thought he loved me too,” I add softly, feeling the weight of the truth pressing down on me.
The apartment is painfully quiet, as if the silence itself is mourning, because Isla has probably known longer than I have, probably since long before I realized it myself.
“I don’t understand what I did wrong,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
Her expression shifts instantly, concern flickering across her face.
“Serena,” she begins.
“No, seriously,” I cut her off, laughing weakly. “I keep trying to figure it out.”
The words tumble out faster now, desperate. “Maybe I wasn’t supportive enough, or I expected too much, or I complained too much, or maybe-”
“Stop,” she interrupts immediately, her tone sharp but not unkind. “Stop doing that,” she says, her voice gentle but firm.
I stare at her, confused. “Doing what?”
“Taking responsibility for everything,” she clarifies.
I open my mouth, but she doesn’t let me speak.
“You always do this,” she continues.
“I don’t,” I insist.
“You do,” she insists. She leans forward, her eyes intense. “Every time Aerion hurts you, somehow you end up apologizing to yourself.”
I look away, because her words hit too close to the truth I’ve been trying to deny.
“You know what really pisses me off?” she asks quietly.
“What?” I reply softly.
“The fact that you’re sitting here acting like you’re the only person who failed this relationship” she states, her voice edged with something I can’t quite place.. anger, frustration, or maybe both. Something hard enters her tone, not anger directed at me, but anger for me.
“Aerion left for five weeks,” she reminds me, her voice quiet but firm.
I flinch. “He left for five fucking weeks and didn’t even ask if you were okay with it,” she presses.
“Isla-” I try to interrupt.
“He treats you like an accessory, Serena” she continues, her words hitting with force.
They hit hard enough that I feel them deeply. “He assumes you’ll be there.”
My chest tightens.
“He assumes you’ll wait.”
“Stop,” I whisper, voice trembling.
“No,” she says softly but insistently. “I’m sorry, but you need to hear this,” she urges.
I look down at my tea, feeling the weight of her words.
She sighs and then reaches for her phone.
“Did you see what he posted last night?”
“No,” I reply, my voice hesitant.
She opens Instagram, hands me her phone, and I look. Immediately, I wish I hadn’t.
A video. Music. Lights. Drinks. People.
Aerion, in the middle of it all, laughing, having the time of his life. I watch it once, then again, feeling something hurt inside me, not because he’s having fun, but because I probably hadn’t crossed his mind at all. Not once. Not for a second.
Meanwhile, I’ve spent the entire day feeling like my life is collapsing.
“See?” Isla asks softly.
I don’t answer, because I do see, very clearly. Unfortunately.
“He’s been an asshole for so long. He’s self centered and doesn’t care about anyone besides himself and I am so sorry because I know you loved him and you wanted it to work out but the truth is that he never cared about you and he’s the dumbest fuck for treating someone amazing such as yourself the way he did. He brought this to himself and it’s about time, you realize that. It’s about time to realize your own worth. I mean I’ve said this before but he was jealous of Valarr spending time with you, when he didn’t even make time for you himself. It wasn’t love.. it was obsession and possessiveness and you deserve so much better. So so much better. I promise.”
She softly brushes my hair out of my face while the other still rubbed my back. Her words are the last cut to the wound but at the same time, they’re healing. Because I know they’re true. Because I realize what a fucking idiot I was.
The silence stretches, heavy and oppressive, until Isla asks gently. “How was it then?”
I blink, confused. “What?”
Her eyebrows lift. “You know exactly what.. the sex.”
I groan, overwhelmed. “Oh my God.”
“Oh come on. You think I don’t want the details? Well, actually I don’t because it’s Valarr and ew, but I do want to have an overall idea.” she presses with a chuckle, her tone light but persistent.
Despite myself, I laugh, then look down, and the smile slips before I can stop it.
Immediately, Isla points. “There.”
I can feel my cheeks flushing. “I… it was good. Really good. I’ve never felt like this before.”
“That good?” she asks teasingly.
“Isla,” I groan.
“That good?” she repeats, practically falling sideways with laughter.
“It.. was incredible,” I finally admit, my voice almost a whisper. The silence that follows makes me blush even harder.
“You look happier talking about him than I’ve seen you look in months” she observes softly.
That shuts me up immediately because it’s true, so true I can’t deny it. The laughter fades, the room falling into a contemplative quiet once more.
“What are you going to do?” Isla asks gently.
I stare at my tea, then at my phone, then back at the tea, feeling trapped by the only two options available. Five weeks of lying or one terrible, honest text message.
Neither option feels right or fair. Neither feels good, but one of them is honest.
Eventually, I pick up my phone.
My hands tremble slightly as I do, and Isla doesn’t speak or rush me, she just waits patiently, telling me to go with whatever decision feels more right.
I open the messages, my eyes landing on Aerion’s name. My chest tightens painfully because, despite everything, I did love him, maybe part of me still does, just not enough anymore, not in the way he deserves, or in the way I should. My fingers hover over the screen, then begin to type a message that’s simple, truthful, and painfully necessary.
It’s not long, no accusations, no mention of Valarr or what happened, of course, just the ugly truth about our relationship.
Aerion,
I’ve been staring at this message for so long now because I don’t know how to do this properly, and I don’t think there is a proper way.
The truth is that I’ve been unhappy for a long time, and I think, if I’m being honest with myself, you’ve been unhappy for a long time too.
I’ve spent months telling myself that things would get better when uni calmed down, or after exams, or during summer, but I don’t think either of us believes that anymore.
I care about you, and I always will, but I don’t think this relationship is working, and I don’t think it’s fair to either of us to keep pretending that it is.
I’m sorry that I’m doing this while you’re away. I know it’s awful, and I know you probably deserve this conversation in person. I wanted to wait until you came back, but that didn’t feel honest either.
I’m breaking up with you.
I’m sorry.
Serena
I read the message six times, then seven, then eight, feeling my thumb hover uncertainly above the send button, unable to breathe properly.
“Serena,” Isla’s voice is gentle but steady, pulling my attention back. “It’s okay,” she says softly.
I look back down at the screen, at the blinking cursor, at the life I’ve been living, and at the one waiting on the other side of this. Then, before I can lose my nerve, I press send. The message disappears, and for a moment, nothing happens.. no explosion, no ceiling collapse, and the apartment remains standing, my phone still in my hand. And yet, everything feels different, as if a door has quietly closed somewhere behind me, permanently and with rough finality. I stare at the screen, at the tiny word appearing beneath the message- Delivered- and suddenly, I understand that there is no way to take it back.
“Ashford?” you ask, your brow furrowing as you look up from Vaella, who sits comfortably in your lap, her tiny fingers clutching a corner of a cloth she’s decided is far more interesting than any of the toys scattered around her, chewing on it with determined concentration. Your voice carries a note of confusion, almost a gentle challenge, as you meet Valarr’s gaze. “What’s in Ashford? Why are we going there?”
His smile widens, a slow, deliberate curve that hints at amusement but also something more layered beneath it. “My father believes it is necessary to follow the invitation to the tournament,” he explains, his tone even, as if stating a matter of fact. “He thinks it’s important that we attend.”
You blink, caught off guard. “A tournament,” you repeat, voice uncertain. “And we’re going because he-”
He nods, eyes steady. “Because he believes it’s significant enough to warrant the Crown’s presence.”
You stare at him, unblinking, trying to process the implication. The idea of such an event taking place in a town you barely knew exists feels distant and strange, and yet the seriousness in his voice makes it clear this is no ordinary affair.
Your stomach tightens, a visceral reaction to the implication that this is no ordinary event, that it is, in fact, significant enough to warrant royal presence. You shift slightly in your chair, instinctively feeling the need to protect Vaella, to keep her close, even as your mind races ahead. “And so we are going,” you say, your tone quiet but firm, a mixture of acceptance and trepidation.
“Most of us are,” Valarr confirms, and you frown, the word lingering on your lips.
“Most?”
He nods, a slight incline of his head, and explains simply, “Matarys and my grandfather are staying behind. The rest of us is going.” His words are careful but confident, laying out the broad strokes of what will be a significant journey.
Your gaze drifts downward, settling on Vaella, who is blissfully unaware of the storm of thoughts swirling inside you. She is six months old, nearly seven, an age that feels both impossibly young and heartbreakingly grown-up all at once. Gods, where has the time gone? One moment, she fits entirely within the crook of your arm, her tiny body warm and soft, and now she has opinions about everything, has recently discovered that she can throw things with purpose, and is already testing boundaries in ways that make your heart ache with both pride and dread. Your eyes lift again, seeking reassurance from Valarr, and your voice slips out before you can stop it, quiet and trembling, “You mean to bring her.”
It is not a question, because you already know the answer. His expression confirms your fears immediately. “I do,” he replies simply, as if there is no doubt in his mind, as if this decision has already been made long before the words leave his lips. You stare at him, then at your daughter, then back at him again, feeling the weight of the reality settling over you. “A fortnight on the road,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else, the words thick with apprehension.
“Approximately,” Valarr agrees, his tone steady but gentle, and you shake your head slowly, overwhelmed by the thought. The thought of traveling with a baby, on a journey that could last days, with all its unpredictable dangers and uncertainties, grips your stomach tightly. Not because you doubt the servants or the arrangements, those are well in hand, but because she is your daughter, your small, fragile, precious girl. The thought of terrible things happening out there, far from the safety of the Red Keep, makes your throat tighten in fear, and your mind races with all the dangers you can imagine: roads that might be treacherous, wheels that might break, her crying through the night, her becoming ill and no healer nearby.
“You make it sound very simple,” you say softly, voice trembling with unspoken worry, almost accusing, because the reality is far more complex than his calm words suggest.
Valarr’s expression softens at once, and he replies quietly, “No. I don’t.” His words are measured, reassuring even, but beneath them, you sense the weight of his own fears, the quiet acknowledgment that this journey will be dangerous and uncertain, no matter how carefully they prepare.
You turn your gaze away, seeking solace in the view beyond the window, in the sprawling city below, in anything but him, because you already know that he understands all too well. He always does. The silence thickens, unspoken fears lingering in the space between you, until finally, you voice the question that trembles on your lips, a confession of your deepest worry. “What if she becomes ill?”
The words escape before you can contain them, a raw, trembling admission of your fear. You hate the vulnerability it reveals, hate the way it exposes how fragile your hope is. Still, it slips out, and you hear the fear in your own voice, the trembling that betrays your composure. “What if she catches something?”
There is a pause, a beat of silence as Valarr considers your words, then responds softly, “What if she develops a fever halfway through the journey?” The question hangs in the air, echoing your own worst imaginings.
You try to speak again, to voice the next concern, but the words stumble and falter, overwhelmed by the endless stream of ‘what ifs’ that flood your mind.. what if the roads are perilous, what if the wheels break, what if she cannot sleep, what if she cries all night, what if.. The cycle continues, relentless and exhausting, each ‘what if’ more terrifying than the last. Valarr observes you quietly, his patience evident, and when he finally speaks, his tone is gentle but unwavering. “Alysanne,” he says softly, and you hate that tone because it always means he sees straight through you, into your deepest fears. “You are frightened.”
You laugh softly, a humorless sound that echoes in the quiet room. “An excellent observation,” you reply, your voice trembling with emotion.
His expression remains unchanged, calm and steady. “You think I am not?” he counters, and for a moment, you are caught off guard by the vulnerability in his voice, the raw honesty that lies beneath his composed exterior. You look back at him, really look at him, and for the first time, you notice the faint tension around his eyes.. the hesitation, the concern that mirrors your own. His hand reaches across the space between you, gently brushing one tiny finger against Vaella’s delicate hand, his gaze never leaving her. “I worry every day,” he admits softly, “every time she sleeps longer than usual, every time she coughs, and every time she refuses a meal.” His voice is almost a whisper, but each word carries the weight of genuine fear.
Your chest tightens painfully because those are the very things you notice in the dead of night, the things that make your heart race and your mind spiral into worst-case scenarios. His words cut through your defenses, exposing the shared concern that binds you both in this moment of vulnerability. “You don’t seem worried,” you say, almost accusing, because you see the faint smile touching his lips, a smile that contains both reassurance and an unspoken acknowledgment of the fears he conceals.
“That is because one of us has to remain sensible,” he replies, and you roll your eyes, exasperation surfacing despite yourself. “There he is,” you mutter under your breath, a mixture of affection and frustration.
“Who is there?” he asks, amusement flickering in his eyes.
“My husband,” you say simply, and his smile grows, that familiar, boyish grin that always manages to soften the tension between you. For a moment, the weight of worry eases, only slightly, because the truth remains that the prospect of being away from the Red Keep for so long, leaving behind everything that is familiar and safe, fills your stomach with an uncomfortable ache. The nursery, the maesters, the familiar routines, they are all here, within these walls, where everything you need resides. Out there, beyond the city, lies uncertainty, danger, and the unknown.
Valarr rises from his chair then, moving smoothly to kneel beside you, a gesture of comfort that he has perfected over time. His hands gently take yours, warm and steady, and his voice remains calm, reassuring. “We won’t be alone,” he promises softly, “we will bring nurses, the maester, additional healers if necessary, the safest carriages available, and the finest escort in the realm.” His words are deliberate, each one reinforcing the lengths they will go to protect Vaella. “If she so much as sneezes wrong, half the royal household will panic.”
Despite yourself, you cannot help but laugh at that.. a genuine, spontaneous sound because his certainty is oddly comforting. Valarr’s smile widens, confident and reassuring. “We will stop whenever she needs,” he continues, his tone gentle but firm. “Whenever you need.”
He pauses, then adds softly, “I will make certain both of you are safe.” His thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles, a tender gesture that speaks of unwavering commitment. “You have my word.”
You hold his gaze, feeling the weight of his promise, and it becomes clear in that moment that, despite the dangers and uncertainties, you trust him implicitly because when he looks at you like that, with such conviction and quiet strength, you find it impossible to doubt. Not because he can control everything, nor because he promises that nothing will ever go wrong, but because if something does happen, he will be there. The quiet certainty of that truth settles deep within your chest, and you realize that you would rather face whatever awaits beside him than face the future alone.
Slowly, you exhale, a breath of reluctant acceptance. “Very well,” you say softly, feeling a small yet undeniable wave of relief wash over you.
“Very well?” he repeats, a grin spreading across his face as he leans in to kiss your forehead, the late afternoon sunlight spilling across the room, casting a golden glow over everything. “We’ll go.”
His smile blooms fully now.. warm, boyish, and just a little too pleased with himself. “You sound thrilled.”
“I am trying to be brave,” you reply, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite the lingering worry.
“You are very brave,” he says softly, teasing but sincere.
You narrow your eyes, warning, “Careful.”
He laughs then, a genuine, easy laugh that fills the room with warmth, and his gaze drifts toward Vaella, who has somehow managed to fall asleep despite the lively discussion about her future. For a moment, he simply watches her, smiling softly and thoughtfully, as if imagining everything that will come to pass. When he finally turns back to you, there is an unexpected certainty in his gaze, something hopeful that makes your heart flutter in spite of yourself.
“You know,” he says quietly, “I think it’s going to be wonderful.”
You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “A fortnight on the road with a baby?”
“Yes,” he replies simply, grin widening. “And a crowded tourney.”
“You mean that town barely anybody has heard of?”
His grin turns mischievous, wider still. “Especially that.”
You shake your head with a mixture of disbelief and reluctant amusement, knowing deep down that no matter how impossible this journey might seem, his unwavering confidence makes it somehow feel manageable.
As he leans forward to kiss your forehead, the late afternoon sun casting a warm glow around you both, you find yourself quietly thinking that perhaps Ashford remains a distant horizon, and the journey ahead may be more daunting than you wish to admit.
______
The journey is not nearly as terrible as you had imagined. It is worse. At least during the first few hours.
You are convinced of it.
The carriage itself is magnificent by any reasonable standard, an enormous royal wheelhouse draped in Targaryen colors, fitted with every comfort wealth can provide. Thick cushions line the benches on either side, embroidered blankets and soft furs piled in every corner, creating an environment that should be cozy. The windows are covered by curtains of deep crimson silk, tied back when the weather is kind, and beneath the seats, several chests have been secured, holding everything from additional gowns to supplies enough to survive a siege, just in case.
In the center of it all rests a carefully arranged nest of blankets and cushions, where Vaella sleeps peacefully, entirely unaware of your mounting anxiety.
“Do you think she is too warm?” you ask, glancing anxiously at the nurse, who looks up from her embroidery, her expression calm and patient.
“No, my lady,” she replies softly.
You nod, trying to settle your nerves.
Several moments pass in silence, broken only by the gentle sway of the carriage and the rhythmic creak of wheels over uneven road. Your gaze remains fixed on Vaella, who remains blissfully asleep, her tiny fist tucked beneath her cheek. She looks so peaceful, so perfect, entirely unaware that her mother is losing her mind with worry.
You envy her innocence.
The carriage sways again, each bump making your heart leap into your throat. Every time a wheel hits a rut, you find yourself clutching the edge of your seat, eyes darting to Vaella’s face.
“What if-” you begin, voice trembling, and immediately, the nurse’s kind voice cuts through your thoughts.
“My lady,” she says patiently, “she is perfectly well.”
You sigh, shoulders sagging as the tension in your chest eases just a little. “I know,” you whisper, but the words feel hollow. Because, despite your logic, emotion refuses to listen. Your mind races with every worst-case scenario, every possible danger out on those treacherous roads.
Your eyes flick to Vaella’s tiny face, her delicate features calm, her chest rising and falling gently. She’s so small, so fragile, your heart aches with the fear that something might go wrong.
“Is she too cold?” you ask suddenly, voice brittle with worry.
The nurse glances up from her embroidery with a gentle smile. “No, my lady.”
You nod again, unable to shake the nagging fear.
Several moments pass, then you venture another question, voice barely above a whisper. “Is the road not too rough?”
“No, my lady,” she replies softly, as if reading your mind.
You glance down at Vaella again, her breathing even, her tiny fists relaxed. Not a concern in the world. You envy her again, this peaceful oblivion. The carriage moves smoothly now, the wheels hitting the road with a gentle rhythm. Yet every bump still makes your stomach tighten. Your gaze stays fixed on Vaella, watching her tiny chest rise and fall, waiting, listening, fearing. Until, suddenly a small noise emerges from the nest of blankets. Then another.
Your body stiffens. Instantly, you sit upright.
The nurse’s lips curl into a faint, reassuring smile. “Here we are,” she says softly.
Vaella stretches, a tiny arm emerges dramatically from the blankets, then another. Her eyes blink open, brown and curious. You feel your entire body relax as her gaze drifts upward and she notices you. The smile that blooms on her face is enormous, bright, and completely unfair. It’s as if she’s been waiting for this moment her entire tiny life.
“Oh, there you are,” you murmur, voice trembling with relief and affection.
Vaella responds with a happy sound, immediately attempting to eat one of the blankets.
The nurse swiftly intercepts her, and your daughter objects loudly, protesting as only a princess can. Then she discovers a tassel hanging from one of the curtains, a new target, and her attention shifts entirely.
The journey continues, and against all reason, you begin to relax. Because she is happy.. more than happy. She is fascinated. Every time the curtains move, she laughs. Every sway of the carriage makes her squeal with delight. Every new sound, every sparkle of sunlight, seems to captivate her utterly.
At one point, she becomes utterly mesmerized by a ray of sunlight streaming through the window, her tiny face lit with wonder. You are not entirely sure she’s ever been happier. The sight makes you laugh softly, a genuine, warm sound.
Perhaps Valarr had been right. Perhaps.
The procession begins to slow, the sound of hooves fading into the distance. Outside, voices rise, first faint, then growing clearer, the first stop. Almost immediately, Vaella perks up, as if she senses something. Her tiny body stiffens, her eyes brightening. You are still adjusting her blanket when a familiar voice floats through the open window.
“Are you alive in there?”
You smile before you even reach the curtain, knowing exactly who it is.
The curtain is pulled back and you meet Velars gaze. His dark hair is windswept from hours on horseback, the sun casting a faint flush across his cheeks. Dust clings to his riding clothes and boots, yet somehow he looks entirely pleased with himself, an expression that seems to be a talent of his.
You can’t help but smile. “Only barely,” you reply, voice dripping with mock exhaustion.
His gaze immediately finds Vaella. “How is she?” he asks, the concern plain in his voice.
You laugh at the obvious question. “The real reason you’re here,” you say with a teasing smile.
Valarr grins but ignores your words, eyes fixed on Vaella. “How is she?”
Before you can answer, Vaella suddenly spots him. For one heartbeat, she simply stares.
Then recognition floods her face. Her enormous smile appears instantly, joyful, bright, and delighted. A squeal of happiness escapes her, and Valarr visibly melts.
You watch it happen, one moment, he is Prince Valarr Targaryen, the next, he is simply a father.
“Well,” he says immediately, grinning from ear to ear, “there she is.”
Vaella begins kicking her legs excitedly, squealing with delight. The nurse laughs, the lady’s maid smiles, and your daughter practically throws herself toward the open window.
Valarr reaches inside, letting her grab one of his fingers. The triumph on her face is immediate: she has captured her father, again.
“She has no idea where she is,” you add, almost as an afterthought.
“And yet she’s very happy and content,” Valarr says simply.
And you can’t argue with that.
Vaella is currently making victorious noises, kicking her legs, grasping at everything in sight.
Valarr looks between the two of you, his expression tender. “How was the journey?”
“Ask me again in a week,” you reply, voice dry.
He laughs, then his gaze softens. “You’re alright?”
The question is for you, and the warmth in his voice makes your chest tighten.
You nod. “I’m alright.”
“And her?”
“Also alright,” you say softly.
His eyes drift toward Vaella, still clutching his finger, still smiling, still utterly enchanted by the fact that her father has appeared.
His expression becomes impossibly tender. Gods. You love him. You truly do.
“If anything changes,” he says quietly, “anything at all, we stop.”
You open your mouth, but he continues anyway. “If she’s uncomfortable, we stop. If you’re uncomfortable, we stop. If either of you need anything, we stop.”
His voice is gentle but firm. Certain.
“I don’t care how far we travel in a day,” he adds, reaching through the window to briefly squeeze your hand. “The two of you are the priority.”
Emotion catches in your throat, a familiar warmth, the kind that comes from being loved well. For a moment, no one speaks.
Then Vaella, still clutching her father’s finger, suddenly decides to try to eat it.
Valarr looks horrified and you burst into genuine laughter.
_____
Shortly after midday, the rain begins.
At first, nobody seems particularly concerned. A brief shower is hardly unusual on these dusty roads, and the royal progress pushes onward with little interruption, droplets tapping a steady rhythm against the carriage roof. The scent of wet leather and earth hangs in the air, but it’s a familiar, fleeting thing, nothing to worry about.
Then the rain intensifies and then it grows heavier and heavier.
By the time evening falls, the roads have transformed into rivers of mud, swirling and churning beneath the carriage wheels. The ground is saturated, the earth unable to absorb any more. The carriage lurches violently, jolting you forward, and you instinctively reach out, clutching the side of the bench with a sharp gasp.
“Gods,” you curse softly, your heart pounding in your chest.
Across from you, the nurse barely glances up from her embroidery, her expression calm, almost resigned. Your daughter remains undisturbed, nestled in her blankets, a tiny, serene bundle, utterly unaware of the storm’s fury.
The carriage tilts again, a violent roll that makes your stomach lurch. Another jolt follows, and suddenly, everything halts.
Completely.
The silence is unnatural, wrong, thick and oppressive. Outside, men are shouting, their voices muffled and distant, but the horses are snorting, restless, the rain pounding so loudly against the roof that it nearly sounds like stones being thrown.
You exchange a glance with the nurse, your breath catching.
The lady’s maid has already moved toward the small window, peering outside with a frown. Her face tightens as she winces.
“What is happening?” you ask, your voice strained.
She peeks out, then immediately winces again, her face pale.
“The wheel appears to be stuck, my lady,” she reports quietly.
You close your eyes, trying to breathe, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart. For a brief moment you allow your mind to quiet.
Then you open your eyes again and immediately find Vaella.
She’s sleeping peacefully, her tiny chest rising and falling, her delicate face untouched by worry or fear. Still unaware that her mother’s mind is racing through every disaster imaginable.
You rise carefully from your seat and move closer, kneeling beside her nest of blankets and cushions. One hand finds her forehead, warm, normal, just as it should be. Relief floods through you, a fragile, fleeting thing.
Until a distant rumble of thunder echoes across the countryside.
Your stomach drops.
“No,” you whisper before you even realize it.
The nurse looks up, concern flickering in her eyes. “My lady?”
“We should not have come,” you say softly, voice trembling. “We should have stayed in King’s Landing.” The words taste bitter as they leave your lips, the truth you’ve been suppressing growing larger with every mile.
“My lady-”
“We’re stranded in the middle of nowhere,” you cut her off, voice trembling with dread. Another crack of thunder rolls overhead, closer now, more insistent.
“We have a baby,” you add, voice cracking.
The nurse’s expression softens, her calm almost maternal. “We have an entire royal household,” she says gently.
You shake your head, frustration and fear bubbling over. “I do not care about the royal household,” you snap. “I care about her. About my child.”
She remains silent, wisely, knowing better than to argue.
Outside, the rain only worsens, beating against the carriage like a thousand drums, relentless and unyielding. Hours seem to stretch endlessly, each minute feeling like an eternity, each thunderclap a blow to your nerves. But in truth, it’s probably far less time.
Then, suddenly, the carriage door swings open.
Cold air rushes in like a gust from the depths of some dark abyss, sharp and biting. One of the household staff appears, soaked through, water streaming from his clothes, his face grave.
“My lady,” he says, voice steady despite the downpour.
You rise immediately, heart pounding. “What is happening?”
“The storm is worsening,” he replies quickly. “We will make camp. Prince Baelor has ordered the royal pavilions erected immediately.”
You blink, stunned.
“Camp?” you echo, voice hoarse.
The idea of spending the night in a tent feels absurd.. terrifying, even. Unfathomable. Entirely unacceptable in your mind.
The man nods, as if that’s the end of it. “The pavilion prepared for Your Highness is nearly ready.”
You close your eyes, feeling the weight of helplessness pressing down on you. Gods help you.
______
The transfer itself is unexpectedly smooth, almost rehearsed. Several servants arrive swiftly, carrying large waxed cloaks and canvas coverings, designed precisely for weather like this, thick, waterproof, and practical. Their movements are coordinated, efficient, almost practiced. Vaella remains asleep throughout the chaos, her tiny form cradled securely in blankets and furs, an achievement that borders on miraculous.
With careful hands, the servants lift her, wrapping her snugly. You follow immediately, your heart pounding with a mixture of relief and dread. The cold is biting and the wind cuts through your layers like a blade. Mud clings to everything.. your hair, your clothes, the carriage, the ground beneath your feet.
For a terrible moment, as you rush through the storm toward the waiting pavilion, every fear you've harbored threatens to overwhelm you. Every nightmare, every worry spirals into a single, relentless thought: this is exactly what you feared.
And then, suddenly, you reach the tent and you stop.
The sight before you stops you cold.
The pavilion is enormous.
Not just a tent, not merely a temporary shelter. It’s an entire chamber built from sturdy canvas and thick ropes, designed to withstand the worst of storms and still provide comfort. The ground is already covered with rich carpets, muffling the sound of rain pounding against the fabric. Furniture has been unpacked and arranged.. an elegant, portable bed frame stands ready beneath layers of plush blankets and furs, a cradle already assembled beside it.
Candles flicker warmly throughout the space, casting a gentle, flickering glow against the canvas walls. A brazier in one corner glows softly, its warmth seeping into the air, creating a cozy haven amid the muddy chaos outside.
Considering it was assembled in the middle of a muddy field, it’s breathtaking.
The nurse’s smile is quiet but triumphant. “Told you,” she says softly.
You refuse to admit she may have had a point. Instead, you stand there, breath catching in your throat, trying to reconcile the storm’s fury outside with the warmth and order within.
_______
Vaella slips back into sleep, curled safely within her makeshift cradle.. warm, dry, perfectly content. The gentle rise and fall of her tiny chest brings a fragile peace to your heart. Yet, despite her repose, you remain restless, your mind refusing to settle.
Outside, the storm continues unabated. Rain lashes against the canvas roof, each drop a sharp percussion that echoes in your ears. The wind rattles the supports, causing the entire pavilion to shudder and groan. Every sound pulls your gaze toward your daughter, as if reassurance might be found in her peaceful slumber.
The nurse notices your unease. “My lady,” she whispers softly.
You lift your eyes. “Princess Vaella is quite safe,” she adds, her voice soothing.
“I know,” you reply, though the reassurance feels flimsy.
“You’ve checked her five times,” the nurse reminds gently.
“Actually, it was four,” you correct, almost defensively.
She studies you with a mild, knowing look, but neither of you has time to continue. The entrance flap suddenly parts, and you lift your chin sharply.
Valarr steps inside and instantly, you see that he’s lost his mind.
He’s drenched, not just damp or wet, but utterly soaked through. His hair is plastered to his forehead, water streaming down his face. Muddy footprints stain the carpets as he trudges inside, each step heavy with rain.
For a stunned moment, you simply stare.
“Gods,” you breathe.
Valarr blinks, eyes wide and unrepentant. “What?”
“You’re freezing,” you say sharply.
“I am not,” he protests, though the puddle forming beneath him tells another story.
“You’re dripping onto the floor,” you remind him, voice clipped.
He glances down and grimaces as a spreading puddle marks his passage.
Without hesitation, you rise. “Take those off,” you command.
He hesitates, mouth twitching in that infuriating way that always makes your blood boil.
“The coat,” you add, voice firmer. “Now.”
His brow rises. “Alysanne-”
“Your coat,” you insist, pointing.
He finally relents, a slow smile tugging at his lips, one that makes your patience snap.
“Don’t smile at me,” you warn.
“I wasn’t,” he says, feigning innocence.
“You were,” you retort, crossing your arms.
He shrugs, grinning wider. “I am being scolded.”
You huff, walking over to begin removing his soaked layers. The fabric is icy to the touch, absolutely frigid. You shoot him a sharp look. “How long have you been out there?”
“A while,” he admits, voice casual.
“A while,” you echo, feeling a flash of frustration. “We needed additional tents.”
He nods, unabashed, noticing your gaze. “Yes. We have people for that-”
“And yet you’re the one standing in the storm,” you say, eyes narrowing.
His grin returns, devilish and unrepentant. You could strangle him, lovingly, but still, you’re tempted.
You toss a blanket in his direction. “Sit.”
He obeys, far too quickly, a traitorous smile still lingering.
You drape the blanket around his shoulders, then do the same with another, before reaching out to touch his face. His skin is ice-cold, much too cold.
Your expression darkens. “You’re freezing,” you say softly.
“I’m fine,” he insists, though his eyes betray him.
“No, you’re not,” you reply, gently but firmly.
His smile softens, a flicker of tenderness in his gaze that always makes your resolve weaken.
“I am fine,” he repeats, voice more measured. “I promise.”
You hesitate, unsure whether to believe him. His thumb brushes your knuckles, a silent reassurance.
Outside, the storm continues to rage with relentless fury. Inside, the pavilion feels warm, safe, alive with quiet comfort. Vaella sleeps undisturbed. The fire crackles softly, casting a golden glow that chases away the shadows. The storm’s howling is distant, almost insignificant now.
Valarr looks at you, his expression tender and a little mischievous, making your defenses falter.
“You were far more worried about me than the storm,” he teases softly.
You scoff. “I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was worried about both,” you reply, crossing your arms, but your voice wavers.
He chuckles, a soft, victorious sound. You open your mouth to argue but then pause. Perhaps he’s not entirely wrong.
His smile widens, victorious and utterly unrepentant.
You hate when he does that.
A moment later, he reaches for your hand, gently pulling you down beside him on the bed. The warmth of his touch, the softness of the blankets, the peaceful sleeping form of your daughter nearby.. suddenly, the storm feels far away.
_____
By the time you finally arrive at Ashford, a deep conviction settles in, you could spend another day in a carriage and never willingly enter one again.
The journey itself has been tolerable. Not truly terrible. Vaella has been remarkably cheerful, her tiny face bright with curiosity and innocence. The weather, after the storm’s fury, has calmed considerably, leaving behind a cool, fresh air that feels almost cleansing. And Valarr, ever attentive, has spent the better part of two weeks appearing at your carriage window every few hours, checking that neither you nor your daughter have somehow perished in the wilderness.
Yet, none of that changes the fact that you are utterly exhausted.
The moment servants begin hauling trunks into the chambers assigned to your family, you turn to your lady’s maid with a single, decisive request. “I would like a bath.”
Immediately. Preferably before anyone asks anything else of you.
Luckily, your request is met with enthusiasm. The servants hustle into motion, steam rising from buckets of hot water, the scent of lavender and soap already filling the air. By the time Valarr returns briefly to change his clothes before slipping away again to attend his father, the bath is nearly ready.
“You look pleased,” he remarks, observing you from the doorway, a faint smile touching his lips.
You glance up from where you’re carefully removing your jewelry, a small, exhausted smile curling at your own lips. “I am about to sit in hot water,” you reply, voice tired but content.
The corner of his mouth twitches, an attempt at a grin, and then he crosses the room, leaning in to press a brief, tender kiss to your lips.
“I won’t be long,” he says softly.
You immediately know that this is a lie.
“Your father?”
“My father,” he confirms, already turning toward the door.
You sigh, a mixture of relief and weariness. “Give him my sympathies for never being able to rest.”
Valarr laughs quietly, the sound warm and familiar, then slips out into the corridor, leaving you alone with the promise of peace or something close to it.
_____
By the time you sink into the bath, every muscle in your body feels as though it has forgotten what comfort truly is.
The hot water works its magic almost immediately, easing the tension from your shoulders and melting away the ache deep in your bones. For the first time in days, there is no sway of the carriage beneath you, no servants bustling with trunks, no obligations tugging at your mind. Just warmth.
Silence.
Peace.
You close your eyes, letting it settle around you like a soft blanket. The nurse has taken Vaella to settle her in the nursery in the adjoining chambers, and Valarr has vanished with his father and the royal household, engrossed in matters that seem very distant from your quiet moment.
For several blissful moments, you simply sit there, soaking in the calm. Then you shift slightly, an almost subconscious movement, and immediately wince as your breasts brush against the edge of the tub.
A dull, persistent ache flares anew. Not painful, but unmistakably familiar. Your brow furrows. It’s the kind of discomfort you’ve been noticing on and off for days now.. weeks, perhaps. You rest a hand against your abdomen, feeling the faint tug of it.
The sensation fades, replaced by a quiet but growing unease. You exhale slowly, trying to dismiss it. The journey, the long hours in a carriage, the poor roads.. all plausible explanations. But behind that thought, another quietly surfaces, one you’ve been deliberately ignoring for days.
Your eyes open, slow and hesitant. Surely not. You shift again, wincing as your breasts brush against the tub’s edge once more.
And now, in this quiet moment, you realize, you’re no longer relaxing.
The water feels too warm, your pulse too quick. A sudden impulse makes you speak.
“Can someone fetch the maester for me?”
Your lady’s maid nearly drops the towel she’s folding. She looks up, concern flickering across her face.
“The maester, my lady?”
“Yes,” you say, voice steady but strained. “I would like to speak with him privately.”
Concern flashes briefly, but she bows quickly. “At once, my lady.”
___
By the time the maester arrives, you’re dressed again, seated beside the window of your chamber. Outside, Ashford Castle bustles with activity, noble visitors arriving, servants moving purposefully across the grounds. Inside, though, your mind refuses to settle.
A gentle knock sounds.
“Enter.”
The maester steps inside, an older man with kind eyes and a chain that seems almost absurdly long. He bows politely.
“My lady.”
“Thank you for coming,” you say softly.
“Your maid said you wished to see me,” he replies, stepping closer.
You nod, momentarily uncertain how to begin. The maester waits patiently, his gaze calm and attentive.
Finally, you speak. “I have not been feeling entirely myself.”
His expression sharpens with concern, professional and attentive.
“In what way?” he asks gently.
You look down at your hands, hesitating. “I’ve had occasional cramps. Aches. Low in my stomach. Only for the past two weeks. Not constantly. Only now and then.”
He nods, thoughtful.
“Anything else?”
You hesitate again, feeling foolish. Then, softly, “My breasts have been sore.”
He shows no visible reaction, only asks, “For how long?”
“About the same,” you whisper.
Another pause. “When was your last moon’s blood, my lady?”
The question lands like a stone dropped into still water, sinking deep.
“I...” Your voice falters. “I-”
The maester’s gaze is steady, patient.
You try to recall. Truly recall. And as you search your memory, unease tightens around your chest.
You do not know. Gods. You do not remember specifically.
The maester notices immediately. “You are uncertain.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. “I’ve had… a lot on my mind.”
He smiles gently, understanding. “Yes. Princess Vaella keeps you busy.”
You laugh softly, a little embarrassed.
He folds his hands. “Have you considered the possibility that you may be with child?”
The words hang heavily between you.
You stare at him, then look away, toward the window, toward nothing.
“I considered it. Briefly. And then I told myself I was being foolish… I.. my daughter is still so young, barely seven months-”
He nods, patient.
“That does not make it impossible,” he points out gently.
He asks more questions about your health, recent symptoms, changes, until he conducts the examination, professional and respectful, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable as you stare at the ceiling. When it’s over, he steps back, silence stretching between you.
You watch him gather his things, waiting, unable to breathe properly.
He glances up, then smiles.. small, knowing, reassuring.
“Well?” you whisper.
He studies you for a moment, then inclines his head. “My congratulations, my lady. You are with child.”
The words hit you like a blow. Everything inside you goes still.
You stare, not because you don’t understand, but because suddenly, everything makes sense. The constant symptoms these past weeks.
Your hand drifts unconsciously to your stomach. You barely notice.
“Are you certain?” you ask, voice trembling.
The maester’s expression softens. “As certain as I can be this early.”
You laugh, small and breathless, disbelieving. “Seven gods, save me.”
He chuckles quietly. “I suppose the prince will be pleased.”
That almost makes you laugh properly, a brief, genuine burst of amusement, as you remember his wish for another child weeks ago.
“Oh, he will,” you reply softly. “More than pleased.”
Valarr had spent months gazing at Vaella as though she hung the moon. The thought of his reaction warms your heart, almost makes you giddy.
The maester begins packing away his things. “Shall I inform Prince Valarr?”
Your head snaps up immediately. “No.”
Your voice is firm.
“Not yet.”
He offers a gentle smile. “You wish to tell him yourself.”
You nod, feeling a strange mixture of relief and anticipation. “Very much so.”
He bows once more. “Then my lips are sealed, my lady.”
Relief washes over you, warm and immediate.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
The door closes softly behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts, your secret. You sit in silence for a long moment, your hand still resting lightly on your stomach, a small smile lingering on your lips.
And despite the chaos of the past weeks, despite the burdens you carry, you find yourself imagining Valarr’s face when you finally tell him and that thought alone makes your smile grow.
_____
You had every intention of telling him.
Really.
That had been the plan, when the maester left your chambers and you sat alone with your secret, a foolish smile lingering on your lips. But then Valarr returned. Then the servants arrived. Someone needed something, then someone else. Before you knew it, the evening feast at Lord Ashford’s hall was already underway.
So for now, the secret stays with you, hidden.
Though, judging by the way Valarr keeps casting curious glances your way, it won’t be long before he suspects something. Or perhaps, he already does.
“You’re smiling again,” he says quietly, offering you his arm as you walk through the castle’s corridors, following the flow of nobles toward the great hall.
You look up, feigning innocence. “I am not.”
He sharpens his gaze, a glint of suspicion. “You are.”
“I simply had a pleasant afternoon,” you reply, voice light, trying to hide the flutter in your chest.
His eyes narrow slightly, a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. The look is playful but perceptive. You try to meet his gaze, but your nerves make you look away, the smile threatening to give you away.
“That bath was truly remarkable,” you say softly, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.
Valarr snorts, amused. “You’re blaming all this on a bath now?”
“It was a very good bath,” you reply, voice innocent.
He gives you that look that’s part amused, part knowing. “Alysanne.”
“Yes?”
“I know you,” he says simply, with a calm certainty that makes your stomach flutter.
Your heart begins to race. Not because he suspects, you tell yourself. Surely not. But because the weight of your secret feels heavier standing beside him, knowing you’re holding something that could change everything.
“I should hope so,” you whisper, voice trembling just slightly.
“You’re hiding something,” Valarr says softly, eyes fixed on you, the suspicion clear beneath his gentle tone.
And just like that, your breath catches. Gods, you should have known he’d see through you.
He notices everything. Everything.
But instead of pressing further, he offers a teasing smile. “Have you received some particularly entertaining gossip?”
You almost laugh, relieved, amused, breathless. “Yes,” you admit.
His face brightens instantly. “I knew it.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, feeling guilty despite yourself. The smile on your lips wavers, then stays. “That must be it,” you say softly, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.
He studies you a moment longer, then chuckles quietly, his hand resting lightly on your arm. “Well, then,” he says, voice warm, “we’d best keep moving. Wouldn’t want to keep everyone waiting.”
______
The corridors are crowded with lords, ladies, knights, servants, all of Ashford seemingly gathered in one place. The noise hums around you, a restless tide of voices and footsteps, as you and Valarr press onward toward the great hall. His expression gradually shifts, becoming more contemplative, and you notice it immediately.
“What is it?” you ask softly.
His gaze drifts briefly ahead, then back to you. “There has been news.”
Your heart tightens instantly. “What kind of news?”
He hesitates, then speaks, voice low. “Aegon and Daeron are missing.”
You blink, the words sinking in slowly. For a moment, you’re sure you’ve misheard. “Missing? What happened?” you manage to ask.
“No one seems entirely certain,” Valarr says, frustration creeping into his tone. “But apparently they have slipped away from their escort.”
You can’t help but think of Vaella, of what it would feel like not knowing where she was, whether she was safe, whether she was frightened. The thought makes your chest tighten painfully.
“Gods,” you whisper softly.
“Maekar must be beside himself,” Valarr says quietly.
“I imagine he is,” you reply, voice heavy.
You walk in silence for a moment, both lost in thought. Because, whatever your opinion of Prince Maekar, and you generally find him intimidating more than anything else, this feels cruel. Unfair. You shake your head, murmuring, “No wonder he always looks angry.”
The words slip out before you realize. Valarr glances at you sideways, but you press on.
“He has Aerion,” you add, voice tinged with sympathy. “That alone should earn some compassion.”
“Firstborn son is a drunkard,” Valarr says with a dry chuckle. “And now, missing along side his younger brother.”
You shake your head. “I genuinely feel sorry for him.”
Valarr’s laugh is brief but genuine. “Alysanne.”
“What?”
“You sound as though you’re preparing a defense before anyone’s accused him.”
You meet his gaze, amused. “Would you disagree?”
His mouth twitches, a faint smile. “No.”
“Thank you,” you say softly.
“Aerion alone would test the patience of a saint,” Valarr remarks, and you snort in response.
The image of Maekar trying to manage Aerion’s reckless spirit on a daily basis suddenly feels exhausting.
Valarr’s amusement lingers for a moment longer, then fades into quiet thought. “I do hope they are found soon.”
The sincerity in his voice softens your expression. “So do I.”
You squeeze Valarr’s arm gently, a silent comfort. MHe responds by placing his hand over yours briefly, simple, familiar, reassuring.
Neither of you speaks it aloud.
You’ve both buried a child before. You know how quickly fear can turn to despair, how silence can become deafening when hope flickers low. And perhaps that’s why, as the great hall finally comes into view, glittering with candlelight and alive with the hum of conversation, you find your thoughts drifting not to the missing princes, nor to the upcoming tourney, but to the secret you carry beneath your heart.
Another child. Another miracle.
The realization fills you with such overwhelming happiness that your lips curve into a smile before you even realize it. It’s a quiet, pure joy, an unspoken hope that keeps you steady.
Valarr notices immediately.
“There it is again,” he says, eyes narrowing slightly, a hint of teasing challenge in his tone.
You groan softly. “What?”
“That smile,” he says.
You quickly look away, far too conscious of the warmth creeping into your cheeks.
He steps closer, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “You’re definitely hiding something,” he says, voice low and amused.
You laugh, genuine this time, unburdened for a moment. Then, without thinking, you rise slightly onto your toes, pressing a quick, careless kiss against his cheek before he can question further.
The gesture makes him pause, momentarily stunned. Only momentarily.
When you pull back, he’s still watching you, eyes sharp, curious, unreadable.
“You’ll find out eventually,” you say softly, a teasing smile in your voice.
______
The chambers finally settled into peaceful silence after the feast. The endless greetings, conversations, and introductions had finally come to an end. Now, only the soft flicker of candlelight illuminated the room. The noise and laughter from the hall faded into the background, leaving behind a serene quiet. Vaella was asleep in the adjoining nursery, and the nurses had promised to summon you if she woke. For the first time since arriving at Ashford, nothing demanded your attention. Nothing except your husband.
Valarr was stretched beside you, one arm loosely wrapped around your waist. His face was illuminated by the gentle glow of the candles. He had shed his doublet almost immediately upon returning, declaring the feast a success simply because it had finally ended. You had laughed at him, and he had looked so pleased with himself.
Now, he traced absent-minded circles against your side, his gaze fixed on you. The quiet intimacy felt like a balm to your soul. His eyes met yours, and immediately, he narrowed them.
“There it is again,” he teased softly.
You groaned, burying your face against his shoulder. “Oh, Seven, save me.”
His smile widened. “That smile.”
“I do not have a smile,” you denied, though the warmth in your voice betrayed you.
“You absolutely have a smile,” he countered, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
His expression softened instantly, an almost reverent look, as if he couldn’t believe you were real. Gods, after all these years, his love still made your heart flutter.
“You are happy,” he observed quietly.
It was not teasing this time. Just curiosity, gentle and genuine.
You held his gaze, and in that moment, you realized you did not want to wait. Not until tomorrow, or the next day, or after the tourney. The secret felt too precious, too wondrous to keep hidden any longer.
Your hand drifted toward his, fingers intertwining. Valarr noticed immediately, and his expression shifted from curiosity to concern.
“What is it?” he asked softly.
You smiled genuine, warm, unburdened. “I saw the maester this afternoon.”
His brow furrowed. “Alysanne.”
There it was, instant worry, as familiar as the dawn.
You almost laughed at his reaction. “I am alright.”
“You saw the maester,” he repeated, voice edged with disbelief.
“I am fine,” you said again, more firmly.
But his concern lingered, unwavering. “What happened?”
You hesitated for only a moment, then gently lifted his hand and bring it to your lips before placing it against your stomach.
He looked down, then back at you.. confused, overwhelmed, a flicker of realization dawning in his eyes.
One heartbeat. Two.
Then, all at once, his eyes widened.
“Alysanne,” he whispered, voice trembling.
You nodded softly, a small smile curling your lips. The room fell utterly silent, save for the beating of your hearts.
Valarr simply stared, unspeaking and unmoving, as if trying to process the miracle before him.
And then, impossibly, you began to laugh.
“That was roughly the same reaction I had,” you said between your giggles.
He remained silent for a moment, then finally, his voice thick with wonder, asked, “You are with child?”
You nodded again, more certain than ever. “Yes.”
His face transformed into pure joy, astonishment, love flooding every feature. He laughed breathlessly and pulled you close, clutching you as if he feared you might disappear.
“Alysanne,” he whispered reverently, voice trembling with awe. “You’re with child.”
“Apparently,” you replied, smiling through tears of happiness.
He pressed his forehead to yours, still laughing softly. “You’re with child,” he repeated, as if the words were sacred. “Gods. We are to have another.”
Your own smile widened. “That’s how these things tend to work,” you teased gently.
He ignored the tease, far too caught up in the wonder. His hand remained on your stomach, as if already feeling for the life within.
“When did you find out?” he finally managed.
“This afternoon,” you replied softly.
“And you waited until now?”
You shrugged, trying to hide the thrill in your voice. “I wanted to wait for the perfect moment.”
His smile grew impossibly wider, impossibly brighter. And then his face shifted again, concern flickering across his features.
“Are you well?” he asked immediately.
You smiled softly, reaching up to touch his face. “I am fine.”
He studied you, worry etched deeply into his expression. “Any cramps?”
“Some,” you admitted, brushing it off lightly.
He exhaled, relief mixed with lingering concern. “You shouldn’t have traveled. The road-”
“Valarr,” you interrupted gently, “nothing happened. The maester checked on us every couple hours.”
His grip tightened slightly. “It was not every couple hours.”
“It was every other hour,” you insisted, teasing.
He looked guilty, caught almost. You laughed again, the sound light and carefree.
Gods, you loved him. His hand returned to your stomach, lingering there almost shyly. Then he leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss through the fabric of your nightgown. One. Then another.
His fingers ran through your hair as he looked at you, eyes shining with wonder.
“We’re having another baby,” he whispered, voice thick with disbelief and joy.
“Yes,” you replied softly. He pulled you closer, one arm wrapped around your waist, his hand still resting protectively on your stomach. The warmth of his love surrounded you both, filling the quiet chamber with the promise of new life, new hope.
_____
The lists are louder than you remembered. Or perhaps it only feels that way because Vaella is not with you. For the first time in months, she is not sitting in your lap, tugging on your sleeves, demanding your attention, or attempting to place something entirely unsuitable into her mouth. Instead, she remains back at Ashford Castle with her nurses, leaving you free to sit amongst the royal party and actually watch the tournament.
Not that you are particularly interested in the tournament. At least, not until Valarr rides.
The rest is simply waiting. The afternoon sun shines brightly overhead while knights thunder across the lists one after another. Lances splinter beneath cheering crowds as banners snap in the breeze. You applaud politely when appropriate. Smile when required. And mostly find yourself watching the royal pavilion instead.
Prince Baelor sits beside you, appearing considerably more relaxed than he had at the feast the night before. Perhaps it is because he enjoys tourneys. Or perhaps it is because Valarr has already shared your news. The moment your husband had informed him that morning, Baelor had looked so delighted that you had briefly feared he might embrace both of you at once.
Now, as another pair of knights charge one another below, he shakes his head and laughs softly.
“I still cannot quite believe it,” he says.
You glance toward him. “The baby?”
“The baby,” he confirms, and the smile returns immediately, warm, genuine, entirely grandfatherly. The amusement lingers for several moments before his expression softens. “You know,” he says quietly, “I am very happy for the both of you.”
Your smile becomes gentler. “Thank you.”
He nods, watching the lists below for a moment before continuing.
“I worried about him,” Baelor admits softly.
The words surprise you.
You glance toward him. “Valarr? I find that difficult to believe.”
“You should not,” he replies immediately, gaze fixed on the tournament grounds, thoughtful, distant.
“When he was younger,” he continues, “I worried constantly.”
A smile touches his lips. “He was so stubborn.”
“Still is,” you reply with a smile.
That finally earns a laugh from him.
“A fair point,” he concedes.
For a moment, silence settles comfortably between you. Then Baelor sighs.
“But he was always good,” he says softly, proudly. “There was never any cruelty in him.”
Your eyes drift toward the lists, toward the field where Valarr will soon ride. You know exactly what he means.
“He cared too much,” Baelor says quietly. “Felt everything too deeply. And I worried the world would punish him for it.”
Your chest tightens unexpectedly, because you know that boy. You married that boy. You watched him become a man.
Baelor’s smile is faint. “Instead, he found you.”
The simple statement catches you entirely off guard. You look away immediately, embarrassed and slightly touched.
“I am not certain that solved all his problems,” you reply softly.
“It solved many of them,” Baelor affirms with complete certainty.
When you glance back, his expression is warm, affectionate, almost fond.
“As a father,” he says quietly, “there are few things more gratifying than seeing your child truly happy.”
The words settle quietly inside your chest. “And he is,” you say without hesitation.
There is no uncertainty. Only conviction.
“He is an even better husband than I ever thought he would be,” Baelor continues.
A pause. “An even better father than I imagined.”
Your throat tightens because those things are true, entirely true.
Baelor shakes his head with a small laugh. “The way he looks at that little girl.”
You immediately smile. “Vaella knows exactly what she is doing.”
“Gods, she does,” Baelor agrees, and the two of you laugh together.
“She has him completely conquered,” you say.
“Utterly,” Baelor replies.
“One smile,” you add.
“He would surrender the Iron Throne,” Baelor jokes with a grin.
You laugh harder, knowing he’s probably right. Baelor’s expression softens once more.
“You have made him very happy, Alysanne,” he says softly, almost reverently.
The sincerity in his voice almost hurts. “You gave him a family.”
A pause. “The sort of family every man hopes to build.”
Your eyes sting unexpectedly, just a little. You blink quickly, looking out toward the tournament grounds.
“You sound very sentimental today,” you remark.
“I am becoming old,” Baelor replies immediately.
You snort. “You are not old.”
“I have grandchildren.”
“You have one grandchild,” you correct.
“Nearly two,” Baelor insists smugly.
You laugh despite yourself. Baelor gestures dramatically toward the lists.
“If the two of you continue at this pace, I shall be surrounded,” he declares.
You raise an eyebrow. “Surrounded?”
“Completely overwhelmed,” he says with a grin. “Every corridor occupied. Every solar invaded. Every meal interrupted.”
You laugh. “That sounds dreadful.”
“It sounds wonderful,” Baelor replies so quickly you immediately soften, because he means it. Entirely.
He looks out toward the crowds. “I find that I am increasingly content with the idea of growing old whilst being climbed upon by grandchildren.”
You burst into laughter. He looks pleased with himself.
“As opposed to dealing with politics,” you say.
“Precisely,” Baelor agrees and you laugh even harder.
The conversation drifts after that.. comfortable, easy, one of those rare moments that seem entirely ordinary while they are happening. The sort one rarely appreciates enough.
Then, suddenly, movement below catches your eye, a stir among the knights preparing near the lists. You sit up slightly, immediately recognizing the familiar silver-gold hair. Your heart skips.
“There he is,” you whisper.
Baelor follows your gaze and smiles, proud, so impossibly proud.
“There he is,” he echoes.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. You simply watch him. Your husband. The father of your daughter. The father of the child already growing inside you. The man Baelor has spent the last quarter hour describing with such unmistakable love.
And suddenly, your chest feels almost too full, full of happiness, gratitude, and affection.
Valarr settles his helm, adjusts his lance, and turns his horse toward the lists. Then, sensing your gaze, he looks up toward the royal pavilion, finding you immediately. Of course he does.
A smile appears, small, quick, only for you. Your heart melts completely.
The herald calls his name, the crowd cheers, and the horses charge. You barely breathe. Even after all these years, tournaments still make you nervous. Yet, today feels different. Today, there is only warmth, only joy, only the certainty that Baelor is right.
Valarr is good. He is kind. He is brave. He is a wonderful husband, a wonderful father. And you love him.
The realization settles inside you just as the lances collide, a crack echoing across the field. The opposing knight wobbles violently and crashes into the dirt. The crowd erupts. For one stunned heartbeat, you simply stare. Then, without meaning to, you are on your feet, applauding, laughing, cheering. Actually cheering.
Beside you, Baelor looks so surprised that you almost laugh harder.
“Alysanne,” he says.
You do not care. Valarr has won, and perhaps for the first time in your life, you are far too happy to remember that ladies are supposed to behave with dignity.
Far below, Valarr glances toward the pavilion again, sees you standing, sees you applauding, and begins laughing beneath his helm. The sight makes your smile grow impossibly wider, while beside you, Prince Baelor simply shakes his head, looking between the two of you with unmistakable affection.
_____
Vaella is attempting to eat your fingers again. You are beginning to suspect that your daughter believes the entire world exists solely to be placed into her mouth. At this moment, she is sitting on a blanket spread across the floor of your chambers, clutching one of your hands with fierce determination. You try unsuccessfully to redirect her attention toward an actual toy.
“That is not food,” you tell her. Vaella disagrees strongly. You let out a sigh.
The door opens. You glance up immediately. Valarr pauses halfway through entering.
“I wasn’t aware I was expected,” he says with a teasing smile. You reply, “You are always expected,” and his smile appears at once, an infuriating man. He crosses the room and immediately crouches beside Vaella, who abandons your fingers without hesitation the moment she spots him. Traitor. Complete traitor.
“Hello there,” Valarr greets softly. Vaella squeals, delighted. You watch them fondly for a moment before recalling your actual question.
“What’s a Trial of Seven?” you ask. Valarr blinks.
“A Trial of Seven?” he repeats. “Yes.” You shift slightly on the floor. “I heard servants talking about it.” His expression immediately changes. The amusement fades.
“Oh,” he says.
You sit up straighter. “So there is one.”
“There will be,” Valarr confirms with a sigh. You frown. “Why?” you ask.
He exhales heavily, clearly already annoyed by the situation. “Because Aerion has managed to create problems again.”
“That narrows it down considerably,” you remark. His mouth twitches despite himself.
“A hedge knight struck him,” he explains. You blink. “A hedge knight struck Aerion?” you ask.
“Yes,” he confirms. You stare. Then, “Good for him,” you say with a grin. Valarr laughs, a proper laugh. You feel no guilt whatsoever.
“I thought you might say that,” he admits. “What did Aerion do?” Because there is absolutely no chance Aerion was behaving himself. Valarr looks entirely unconvinced by the idea as well.
“There was a dispute,” he says.
“A dispute,” you say skeptically. “Aerion being Aerion.”
“There it is,” Valarr agrees. You do not need further explanation, unfortunately.
“What happens now?” you inquire. Valarr replies, “The hedge knight demanded a trial.” You nod slowly. Valarr continues, “And Aerion demanded a Trial of Seven.” You frown.
“And that means?” you ask. Valarr reaches for Vaella as she begins attempting to crawl beneath a chair. “The accused chooses six champions,” he explains, lifting her effortlessly. “And the accuser chooses six of his own.”
You stare. “Twelve men?” you ask.
“Fourteen,” he corrects. You blink. “Fourteen.”
“Seven against seven,” he clarifies.
“That seems excessive to settle such simple matter” you say, raising an eyebrow. “It is ancient,” Valarr admits. “And dangerous,” he adds. You make a face, thinking the entire thing sounds absurd.
“Why would Aerion demand this?” you ask. Valarr lets out a short laugh.
“Because he would rather hide behind seven swords than answer for himself,” he says bluntly. You watch him carefully, the irritation in his voice unmistakable.
“That sounds cowardly,” you comment.
“It is cowardly,” Valarr agrees. He shifts Vaella slightly higher against his shoulder. “He could face the hedge knight himself.” There is a pause. “He chooses not to.” You nod slowly. That sounds very much like Aerion.
For a moment, silence settles between you. Then a sudden thought makes your stomach tighten.
“Valarr,” you say softly. He looks up immediately. “Yes?”
“You aren’t participating,” you say.
He responds so quickly you almost laugh. “No.” Relief floods through you, immediate, powerful. “Good.”
Valarr smiles faintly. “I would not fight for Aerion.”
“Good”
____
Something stirs within you, though at first, you are not quite sure what it is. The darkness of the chamber remains unbroken, the only light coming in as a faint, silvery grey seepage through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room. Beyond the thick stone walls of Ashford Castle, the world outside is only just beginning to wake, the distant sounds of dawn barely audible in the stillness.
For a long moment, you remain caught in the liminal space between sleep and waking, warm beneath the blankets, your body heavy with exhaustion. Then, instinctively, you reach across the bed, expecting to find your husband beside you and for a heartbeat, you do. But when your hand extends, it finds nothing but emptiness.
Your eyes snap open, heart quickening as a sudden coldness spreads through you. The space where Valarr should be is unoccupied, the bed noticeably cooler on that side. You sit up with a jolt, your breath catching in your throat. “Valarr?” you call softly, but only silence responds. The chamber remains silent, eerily so, as if the very air is holding its breath.
Your gaze darts toward the adjoining nursery, where Vaella sleeps peacefully, undisturbed. Everything looks as it should, nothing out of place, no signs of disturbance. Yet, the absence of your husband feels like a chasm opening in your chest, a void that suddenly seems impossibly vast.
With a shiver, you throw back the blankets, your feet touching the cold stone floor. Just as your toes meet the cold surface, the door to your chamber swings open quietly. Relief washes over you, so sudden and overwhelming that it nearly makes your head spin.
Valarr steps inside, still dressed in the clothes he wore to bed, his hair slightly tousled from sleep, his expression calm and unconcerned. There is nothing in his stance that suggests anything is wrong, no hurried movements, no signs of worry.
You stare at him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. He blinks, almost as if surprised by your gaze, and then, realization dawns on his face. “Alysanne?” he says softly, as if waking from a dream.
“Where were you?”
The question slips from your lips sharper than you intended, sharp enough to cut through the quiet air. Valarr pauses only briefly, then moves toward you with a gentle, deliberate step. His voice is soft but steady. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs, as if that explains everything.
That is not an answer, and you know it. You cross your arms, watching him carefully, your mind racing for clues. “Where were you?” you repeat, more insistently this time.
His face softens, the familiar warmth of his expression designed to soothe, to disarm. You hate that look because it always means he’s hiding something. His gaze meets yours, steady and unflinching. “My father wanted to speak with me,” he says simply, as if that explains everything.
And perhaps it does, at least, on the surface.
You narrow your eyes, frowning. “At dawn?” you ask, voice edged with suspicion.
A faint, almost innocent smile touches his lips. “You make it sound very unreasonable,” he replies, his tone light, almost mocking.
“It’s unreasonable,” you insist, frustration prickling at your voice.
Valarr laughs softly, a quiet sound that somehow eases the tension in your chest, just a little. “He needed something,” he says, as if that’s all there is to it.
“What?” The word escapes before you can stop it, automatic and sharp.
For a moment, something flickers across his face, an emotion you can’t quite read, gone so quickly that you wonder if you imagined it. Then he says, “Nothing important,” with a matter-of-fact tone that makes your stomach tighten.
You stare, searching his face for any sign of deception, but he looks completely innocent, too innocent. You know he’s hiding something, and that knowledge fuels your irritation. You’re about to press further when he steps closer, closing the distance between you with a deliberate, soothing movement. His hands rest lightly on your waist, warm and familiar, grounding you even as your mind races.
“Everything is fine,” he says softly, with quiet assurance. His tone is steady, unwavering.
You study him, eyes narrowing as you try to find any trace of worry or concern, anything that might betray the truth. But he remains calm and completely unruffled, as if the world outside and within the castle are of no consequence.
Finally, you exhale a slow breath, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. “Fine,” you say, voice resigned.
His smile blooms, victorious and a little smug, and you resist the urge to push him away, just barely.
Outside, the first light of dawn begins to paint the sky with soft hues of pink and gold, but inside the chamber, the silence persists, thick and heavy, wrapped around you like a shroud.
Valarr gently brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch tender. “You should go back to sleep,” he whispers, voice soothing.
You scoff softly. “You vanished before sunrise,” you remind him, voice tinged with frustration.
He offers a small, knowing grin. “And now I’ve returned,” he replies, as if that explains everything.
“Doesn’t make it better,” you mutter.
“It helps,” he insists softly, and somehow, despite yourself, it does.. just a little.
His hands slide down to your back, pulling you gently closer. You lean into him without thinking, traitorous and helpless to resist the comfort he offers.
“Everything’s alright,” he murmurs again, voice low and reassuring.
And perhaps, because you are still half asleep or because your trust in him runs deep, you finally allow yourself to relax, sinking into his embrace.
“You’re sure?” you ask softly, searching his eyes.
“I am,” he replies instantly, with unwavering certainty.
Your forehead presses against his shoulder, exhaustion creeping back over you. “Good,” you whisper.
Valarr presses a gentle kiss into your hair, then another. “Come back to bed.”
And you let him guide you beneath the blankets once more, feeling the warm shift of the mattress as he settles beside you, his arm wrapping around your waist.
_____
Something is terribly wrong.
You realize it the moment you step out of the breakfast hall.
At first, you cannot quite explain why. Nothing obvious has happened. No announcement has been made, no bells tolling through the castle, no servants weeping in the corridors. And yet an unshakable sense of dread clings to your skin, prickling beneath your fingertips and settling deep in your bones.
The feeling follows you as you walk through Ashford Castle, a strange tension hanging in the air like a heavy curtain drawn across the halls. People move with hurried purpose, their voices hushed to whispers, eyes darting nervously from side to side. Twice, you notice servants rushing past with pale faces and hurried steps, their expressions oddly blank, as if they are trying to hide something.
A group of knights stands gathered near a staircase, speaking in hushed, clipped tones, their heads bowed low as soon as someone approaches, silence falling over them like a shroud. Your brow furrows, and the unease deepens, crawling under your skin like icy fingers.
You pause near a window, your eyes narrowing as you watch and listen, desperate to understand what is wrong. Every instinct screams that this is not normal, nothing about this feels right. A chill runs down your spine, and you clutch your skirts tightly, fighting the urge to turn back, to run and find safety elsewhere.
Your gaze drifts to your lady’s maid, standing just behind you. Her face is pale, her eyes wary. You gently ask, “Have you noticed anything unusual?”
The young woman hesitates, then nods reluctantly, her lips trembling slightly. That small acknowledgment is almost worse than silence. It confirms that your instincts are correct, but it offers no explanation, no clarity.
“What happened?” you press, voice trembling with a mixture of fear and impatience.
She looks down at her hands, hesitating before whispering, “I don’t know, my lady.”
And for once, you believe her. Her voice rings with genuine uncertainty, and that only intensifies your unease.
You continue walking, trying to convince yourself that you are imagining things, that your fears are unfounded. But no matter how hard you try, the sensation persists, growing stronger with every step.
Then, out of the shadows, you spot the maester, an older man with greying hair, the same one who confirmed your pregnancy only days prior. He crosses the corridor hurriedly, clutching several rolls of bandages beneath one arm, his face tight with concern.
Without thinking, you step into his path. “Maester,” you call, voice sharp with urgency.
He stops abruptly, and the moment his eyes meet yours, something shifts in his expression. A flicker of hesitation, or perhaps dread, crosses his face. Your stomach drops.
“Maester,” you repeat, voice firmer now. “What happened?”
He says nothing at first. Only looks at you, his eyes dark with sorrow, and that silence is somehow worse than any words could be.
“Maester,” you insist, voice rising slightly. “What happened?”
The old man’s face pales. For a moment, he seems torn, caught between duty and dread. Then, softly, almost as if to comfort himself, he speaks. “My lady… perhaps I am not the one who should tell you.”
Your pulse begins to race. Your breath catches. “Tell me what?” you demand, voice trembling.
He looks down, and in that silence, the words are delivered, slowly and painfully. “Prince Baelor has died.”
Time seems to shatter. The words hang in the air like shards of glass, sharp and unforgiving. Everything around you, the corridor, the castle, the very world, seems to pause, waiting for your mind to catch up.
You stare at him, uncomprehending, your thoughts a whirl of confusion and disbelief.
“What?” The word escapes your lips, trembling, distant, almost as if someone else is speaking.
The maester lowers his eyes and whispers, “Prince Baelor succumbed to his injuries.”
Your mind reels. You blink once, then twice, desperately trying to grasp what you have heard. But the words refuse to settle, to make sense.
“What injuries?” you manage to ask, voice faint and strained, barely yours.
The maester’s expression turns even sadder. “The Trial of Seven.”
No. No, that cannot be. That cannot be true.
You saw him yesterday. You spoke to him yesterday. He was laughing, smiling, talking about grandchildren, talking about Valarr.
It cannot be. It must not be.
“You’re mistaken,” you say immediately, voice certain, almost pleading. “He was perfectly fine yesterday. I saw him myself.”
But the old man’s face remains grim, and that silence, heavy and oppressive, tells you everything.
Your stomach twists violently, a sickening churn of dread. For a moment, you think you might be sick.
Baelor. Dead.
The words refuse to settle into your mind, refusing to become real.
Your hand instinctively moves to your stomach, a protective gesture as if trying to hold something fragile inside you.
And then, with brutal clarity, a new thought strikes you, hard enough to steal your breath. Valarr.
Your eyes dart upward, seeking him among the shadows and faces around you.
“Has my husband been informed?” you ask, voice trembling with urgency.
The maester nods slowly. “From what I have heard, yes.”
The impact hits you like a blow, immediate and crushing. Without hesitation, you’re already moving, already turning away from the maester.
He speaks again, but the words are drowned out by your pounding heartbeat. You barely hear him.
Valarr. You need to find him. Now.
_____
Their chambers are utterly empty.
The sight strikes a fresh wave of panic through you, sharp and relentless.
“Valarr?” you call out, voice trembling with desperation, but only silence answers you.
The bed remains untouched, a vacant and cold expanse. The sitting room, normally filled with the scent of incense and the quiet hum of conversation, lies abandoned, silent as a tomb. There is no sign of him anywhere.
Your eyes dart across the room, searching, hoping for a flicker of movement, a shadow, any clue that might tell you where he has gone.
You turn toward a nearby servant, voice trembling. “Have you seen my husband?”
The girl shakes her head quickly, her face pale and anxious. “No, my lady.”
Another servant, then a second, both equally clueless, their expressions nervous and uncertain.
A knight, passing by, pauses briefly, but his own expression reveals nothing.
A steward, hurrying past, offers the same blank stare, no answers, no clues.
Nobody knows. Or if they do, nobody is willing to tell you.
Your heart pounds harder with every passing second because you know him.
Valarr does not grieve openly.
Not like this, not when the wound is still fresh and bleeding so painfully.
He would never break apart before a crowd, never in front of courtiers or strangers, never in the open.
If he is truly grieving then he must be alone.
Somewhere quiet.
Somewhere hidden.
Somewhere safe.
Your breath catches as you stop abruptly in the middle of a corridor, your chest rising and falling rapidly.
You are thinking, desperately trying to piece together where he might have gone because there are only so many places. Only so many that he would choose in a moment like this.
Your eyes close briefly, and in that instant, an answer springs to your mind with startling clarity.
The library.
If Valarr wishes to disappear, if he seeks solace in solitude, then that is where he would go.
You open your eyes, your heart pounding anew, and turn immediately, your steps swift and purposeful.
A passing servant starts when you suddenly halt him.
“Is there a library?” you ask, voice urgent.
He blinks, taken aback, then nods quickly. “Second floor, my lady.”
You are already moving before he finishes speaking, your mind racing even faster than your feet.
Your heart is still pounding, your thoughts swirling, an unbearable mixture of fear and hope.
The words the maester spoke echo in your mind. Prince Baelor has died.
The sentence feels unreal, a cruel twist of fate. It’s impossible to believe. Unthinkable.
Like a story someone else is telling, a nightmare you cannot wake from.
But one thing remains certain, one truth cuts through the fog of grief and confusion.
Valarr is alone.
And whatever grief has overtaken him, whatever pain now consumes his heart, you know exactly where to find him.
______
The library was silent, not peaceful, not comforting, just silent. It was the kind of silence that followed tragedy, when the world continued to turn as if nothing had changed, even though everything had. Dust motes drifted lazily through the shafts of sunlight spilling from the tall windows, and beyond these walls, Ashford carried on as it always had. Servants moved through the corridors, horses stamped in the stables, courtiers whispered in hushed voices.
And Prince Baelor Targaryen was dead.
The words still felt impossible, like a cruel joke played on your senses. It was unfathomable. Yesterday, he had been alive, smiling beside you in the royal pavilion, speaking softly about grandchildren, about growing old, about how proud he was of his son. Yesterday, he had still been here.
Today he was gone.
Your throat tightened painfully as though someone was squeezing your voice from within. You found Valarr sitting alone in the far corner of the library, folded in on himself in a way you’d never seen before. For a long moment, you simply stood there, watching him, your heart breaking with each passing second.
This was not the man you knew. Not entirely.
The Valarr you knew filled rooms with laughter, carried responsibility as naturally as breathing, and when others fell apart, they came to him. He bore grief silently, privately because that was what he was used to. But the man sitting before you now looked smaller, as if the loss had carved something out of him. He looked utterly alone, as if the world had quietly abandoned him in this quiet, sacred space.
Slowly, you stepped toward him. The floorboards creaked softly beneath your feet, but he didn’t react. Not until your hand gently settled on his shoulder. Then he froze. His entire body stiffened beneath your touch, rigid as stone. And when he finally lifted his head- Gods.
You nearly started crying right then. His eyes were bloodshot, face pale, streaked with tears that betrayed him more than words ever could. The sight was so devastating that for a moment, you struggled to breathe. Valarr cried rarely, not because he lacked feeling, no, he felt everything. He simply carried it quietly, privately. But this grief was too large for him to contain.
You lowered yourself to the floor beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his knee. Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched out, heavy and painful, until finally..
He whispered, brokenly, “He asked for my armor.”
Your eyes closed, because you knew what that meant. Of course. The missing piece fell into place immediately. The early morning absence, the strange conversation, the look on his face when he returned.
“He woke me before dawn,” Valarr continued, his voice distant, as if speaking from far away. “I thought he was mad. He wasn’t even dressed properly. He said he needed my armor.”
You listened, saying nothing, knowing he needed this, needed to speak, needed to relive it, despite every word piercing him anew.
“He told me one of Dunk’s champions had withdrawn,” he said softly. “He said he was riding.”
His hands clenched tightly, knuckles turning white.
“I asked him if he was certain,” he added, voice cracking. “I told him he didn’t need to do it but he told me the Kingsguard couldn’t seriously harm him anyway.”
The words seemed to physically hurt him because now he knew. Now he understood how wrong he’d been. Tears burned behind your eyes.
“He laughed,” he said quietly, almost bitterly. The memory devastated him. You could hear it, see it, Baelor’s laugh ringing in your mind, so full of pride and affection.
“He told me not to worry,” Valarr whispered. His shoulders trembled slightly, enough to break your heart.
“He told me to go back to sleep. To my wife. To my daughter,” he finished, voice shattering with grief.
The words hung heavy in the air between you, raw and devastating.
And suddenly, you saw it, Baelor standing in the doorway, watching his son with a mixture of pride and love, knowing exactly who he was and what he would do, and choosing to do it anyway.
Your chest ached, actually ached, as if grief itself had taken physical form.
Valarr’s voice was barely a whisper. “He knew.” He sounded broken, defeated.
“He knew I would’ve argued further. Tried to stop him. Ridden after him if he let me.”
A tear slipped down his cheek, then another. His voice broke apart completely.
“To my shame, I went back to bed.”
Gods, the guilt was unbearable.
“I just went back to bed,” he repeated quietly, tears spilling freely down your own cheeks now, hot and unstoppable because grief was a cruel, twisting thing. It turned every memory into a weapon, every kindness, every moment, every word, sharpened and turned against itself.
You moved closer, taking his face between your hands, gently forcing him to look at you. His eyes were shattered, broken beyond repair.
“You listen to me,” you said, voice trembling, unsteady. “He loved you.”
The words burst forth fiercely, urgently, because they were true, because they mattered, because he needed to hear them.
“He loved you so much.”
Valarr’s face crumpled, tears streaming anew. You could feel tears running down your own cheeks, hot and relentless.
And suddenly, you remembered yesterday, the tournament, the sunshine, Baelor beside you, smiling, talking, proud.
Gods, so proud.
“He spoke to me yesterday,” you whispered.
Valarr blinked, confused, lost.
You swallowed hard, fighting to steady yourself. “He spent half the afternoon talking about you,” you said softly.
His brow furrowed. You laughed through your tears, pathetic and broken.
“He was so proud of you,” you managed.
“The man you’ve become.”
He stared at you silently, listening, clinging to every word. “He was proud of you,” you repeated fiercely. “And he loved you.”
Crying openly now, you shook your head. “He loved you so much.”
Neither of you spoke for a long moment, the silence overwhelming and then, finally, Valarr broke fully.
He opened his arms, almost imploring you, and you moved instantly, wrapping your arms around him.
His face pressed against your shoulder, and he cried, deep, primal tears that came from somewhere ancient and raw.
You held him, tears spilling freely down your cheeks, too, because grief was a terrible, shared thing. The unfairness of it crushed you, and you clung to each other amid the quiet shadows of the library, neither of you trying to hide the tears, neither pretending to be brave.
For now, only grief. Only love. Only the terrible ache left behind by a man who mattered so deeply.
And though neither of you could lessen the other's pain, you bore it together as family.
____
The funeral took place at sunset, as the sky above Ashford burned with shades of gold and crimson. The last light of day reflected across polished armor and silver hair, casting a faint glow over the gathered nobles who stood in solemn silence around the great funeral pyre.
You stood beside Valarr, but not quite beside him. A step behind, close enough to reach out, close enough to feel the tension radiating from him. Close enough to sense that he was barely holding himself together.
The wind lifted the edges of your mourning cloak as the prayers began, soft invocations, blessings spoken over Prince Baelor’s body. You heard them, in the distant corner of your mind, their words blending into a muted hum that felt removed from everything since this morning. The prayers, the blessings, the voice of the priest, everything sounded faint, as if you were listening from underwater.
Your eyes remained fixed on the pyre. On the prince who had welcomed you into his family, who had treated you with kindness, who had held Vaella with such obvious delight. Who had spoken to you only yesterday, about his hopes, his pride, his love.
Your throat tightened painfully, a ache that refused to loosen.
Beside you, Valarr stood perfectly still, too still. His posture was upright, his face composed, his gaze fixed straight ahead. To anyone who did not know him, he might appear calm, stoic, unmoved. But you knew better.
You knew every line of his face, every subtle shift in his expression, every way he hid his true feelings when he thought no one was watching. You knew how much effort it took for him to keep this facade intact, how his body betrayed him with the slightest tremor, the faintest tightening of his jaw. The realization was a knife in your chest, and it hurt more than you could say.
Slowly, almost instinctively, you reached for his hand. Your fingers brushed against his. For a moment, he allowed it, just briefly. You felt the warmth of his skin, the faint tremor he was desperately trying to conceal.
And then, gently, almost apologetically, he pulled away. Not harshly, not unkindly, just enough to create space between you. Just enough to remind you that he fought his grief alone.
Your hand fell back to your side. The rejection stung, not because he meant to hurt you, no, you understood that. You knew he carried his pain inwardly, always had.
The prayers ended. Silence followed so heavy, sacred and absolute. Then the torch was brought forward, a terrible moment, as nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
The flames touched dry wood, and smoke began to rise. The pyre slowly caught, crackling softly as the fire grew taller, brighter, consuming everything. The first crack echoed through the evening air, a sharp reminder of what was happening.
Your own eyes burned, tears threatening to spill over. The fire spread, climbing higher, engulfing the pyre until it became a tower of flames against the darkening sky, a fierce, beautiful, unbearable sight.
Beside you, Valarr did not move. Not once. Not even as the flames reached their height, not even when the heat became almost uncomfortable. His gaze never left the pyre and suddenly, you understood.
He was saying goodbye. That thought shattered something inside you. Tears slipped free, then another. You hastily wiped them away, trying to steady yourself.
The fire continued to burn, the sky darkening around it. People began to drift away, one by one, families gathering, lords escorting their wives, knights returning to the castle. The ceremony was over, and yet Valarr remained standing there, watching the flames consume the last of his father’s earthly presence.
You hesitated, then gently touched his arm. “Valarr.”
His eyes closed briefly. Only briefly. When they opened again, they remained fixed on the dying flames, on the flickering embers that carried the memory of a man he loved.
“I need a moment,” he said softly, roughly.
His voice was strained, as if speaking itself demanded effort.
Your heart clenched because you had known. Even before he said it, you had known what he needed. Still, hearing it hurt. Because a part of you desperately wanted to stay, to hold him, to help carry some of this grief. But love, you knew, wasn’t about selfishness.
So you nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at you, even though he didn’t see.
“I know,” you whispered.
For a moment, you thought he might say something else, reach for your hand, turn toward you, seek comfort. But he didn’t. His gaze remained fixed on the fire, on his father, on the final remnants of a life he wasn’t ready to let go of.
You swallowed hard, then stepped back, giving him what he needed. Even when every instinct urged you to stay, to hold him, to refuse the pain of letting go.
Because sometimes, love meant following them into grief, and sometimes, it meant letting them be alone.
Turning away, you began to walk back toward Ashford Castle. The path felt longer than before, the evening colder, the shadows deeper. Behind you, the voices faded, footsteps disappeared into the dusk.
And still, one figure remained, standing before the dying flames, alone with his grief, alone with his memories, alone with the man who had shaped him into who he was.
And some goodbyes are too personal to share, even with the people who love us most.
____
Weeks later
The Red Keep felt different now, somehow changed by the weight of absence and memory. You couldn’t quite decide whether it was because Prince Baelor was gone or because those who remained were no longer the same. Perhaps it was both.
Weeks had passed since Ashford, yet the feeling of grief still lingered in every corner of the castle. It was an invisible shadow that cast itself over every moment, every routine. The court continued its daily functions. meetings, petitions, feasts, but beneath the surface, the ache remained. It lingered in quiet corners, in empty chairs, in the names that no one dared speak aloud as often anymore.
And nowhere was this more painfully visible than in your husband. Valarr had not fallen apart. Truly, you almost wished he had, because then maybe you could have held him, comforted him. But instead, he had carried it all so quietly, silently, alone.
At first, he had scarcely left your side or Vaella’s. For days after returning to King’s Landing, he seemed unable to put her down. You often found him sitting beside her cradle long after she had fallen asleep, watching her with a tenderness that broke your heart. Sometimes, he would lift her into his arms for no reason at all, hold her close, kiss the top of her tiny head, then close his eyes as if reassuring himself that she was still there.. still breathing, still safe.
You never commented on it, never told him you noticed. Because you understood. After losing Baelor so suddenly, so violently, some frightened part of him was desperate to cling to what was left. To hold onto his daughter, his family, his future.
When he was not with Vaella, he was often with Matarys. The two young men spent hours wandering the gardens, training, talking, sometimes not talking at all, because grief did not always need words. Sometimes, it only needed company. Only someone who understood.
And you understood that too.
Yet despite all of it, despite the tenderness, the love, the way he still reached for your hand in his sleep, you saw the subtle, persistent distance. A shadow that remained, as though part of him was still standing beside that funeral pyre, whispering farewell.
This evening, you found him in your sitting room after supper. The fire burned quietly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the chamber. The nursery door was slightly ajar, so you could hear Vaella babbling to her nurse as she prepared for bed. The sound made you smile automatically, but Valarr did not.
Not because he was unhappy, only because he seemed far away. His gaze was fixed upon a letter in his hand, and he looked lost in thought.
You settled into the chair opposite him silently, watching him.
“What is it?” you asked softly.
His eyes lifted, surprised to find you there, then blinked, as if returning to himself.
“My grandfather,” he replied quietly.
You immediately understood. King Daeron.
“What does he want?”
A faint, humorless smile touched his lips.
“The realm to see me,” he said softly.
Your brow furrowed.
“What does that mean?”
He lowered the letter and looked away.
“The king wants us to undertake a summer progress,” he said flatly.
You stared, your mind racing.
“A progress?”
He nodded.
“Through the Crownlands. Parts of the Reach. Perhaps the Riverlands.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
“That’s a lot of traveling,” you said cautiously.
“It is,” he responded, almost absentmindedly.
You studied him carefully, the way he spoke about it, the way his gaze lingered on the fire rather than on you, the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. Something twisted inside your chest.
“What does he actually want?” you asked gently.
Valarr let out a soft, humorless laugh.
“He wants the realm to see that the succession remains secure,” he said quietly, as if those words had already been explained to him many times.
“He wants them to see an heir,” he continued.
His gaze dropped briefly.
“A young heir. A healthy heir. An heir with a wife,” he added softly.
Your stomach clenched.
“A daughter,” you said quietly.
His eyes flickered toward the nursery.
“And another child on the way,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
Silence settled between you, heavy and full of understanding. You knew what he meant.. The crown needed reassurance. After Baelor’s death, after the chaos and uncertainty, the kingdom demanded proof of continuity, stability and hope.
But when you looked at Valarr, all you saw was exhaustion.
“You don’t want to do it,” you said without question.
His shoulders sagged slightly, and he responded with a quiet, almost defeated nod.
“No,” he admitted.
The honesty surprised you. Because lately, he had been hiding so much, swallowing so much. Yet, this answer was immediate.
“No,” he repeated softly. “I don’t.”
The fire crackled softly, somewhere in the nursery, Vaella’s laughter floated through the air, and your heart clenched painfully at the sound. For a moment, you saw the expression on his face, so young, so vulnerable, and you realized he looked far younger than the heir he was meant to be, far younger than a man carrying the weight of a kingdom.
You leaned forward slightly.
“You don’t have to perform for me,” you said gently.
His eyes lifted, confused.
“Alysanne-”
“You don’t,” you interrupted softly. “You don’t have to pretend you’re alright.”
A flicker crossed his face, gone almost immediately. But you saw it, the fleeting shadow of pain. Because you knew him. You always had.
For several moments, he said nothing, just stared into the fire. Then finally..
“I’m tired,” he whispered, almost as if the words cost him something.
Your chest ached. Gods, you couldn’t remember the last time he admitted weakness aloud.
Valarr exhaled slowly. “I’m tired of everyone looking at me,” he said quietly. He paused, then added, “Waiting.” His jaw tightened. “As though I suddenly know what I’m doing,” he finished bitterly.
You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of those words. Because there it was, the fear. The raw, honest fear.
“I keep thinking about him,” he murmured, voice lowering. “He made all of this look so easy,” he admitted.
You felt tears threaten unexpectedly.
“He walked into a room, and people listened,” Valarr continued softly. “He knew what to say. He knew how to lead.” His gaze dropped, and his voice grew even quieter. “I don’t know if I can be him.”
Those words, so fragile and vulnerable, stole your breath. This was what haunted him, not just the loss of his father, but the fear of what he was supposed to become. The heir. The future. The man everyone now looked toward. You moved closer, crossing the space between you, and gently took his hand in yours. This time, he didn’t pull away. This time, he let you. Your fingers curled around his, warm and trembling. “You are not supposed to be him,” you whispered softly.
His eyes lifted, confused, lost.
“He was your father,” you reminded him gently. “You were never meant to be him, either.” You brushed your thumb across his knuckles, steadying him. “Do you want to know what else he told me at Ashford?”
His brow furrowed, trying to recall.
You smiled softly. “He spent half an afternoon talking about how proud he was of you.” The emotion returned immediately, grief, longing, love, all of it flooding back in a rush. “He told me what a good father you are.” Your voice wavered, but you pushed through, speaking softly. “What a good husband. What a good man.” Valarr looked away, unable to bear the words. Gently, you guided his gaze back to yours. “He wasn’t proud because you were becoming him,” you said quietly. “He was proud because you became yourself.”
And suddenly, his eyes shone, tears brimming at the edges, but not falling. The distance you’d felt these past weeks seemed to crack just a little, enough to remind you that he was still there, still your Valarr. “I’m sorry,” he finally whispered, voice thick with emotion.
You blinked, surprised. “What for?”
His gaze dropped, ashamed. “I know I’ve been…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Distant.”
Your heart ached at that, because he had noticed it too. You offered a gentle, sad smile. “A little,” you admitted.
He let out a short, almost bitter laugh, then fell silent. Finally, he whispered, “I didn’t know how to carry all of it.” His honesty was devastating. “My father,” he said softly. “The crown. You. Vaella. And the baby.” Tears burned anew, overwhelming you with emotion. He sounded overwhelmed, nothing weak, only painfully human. You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. He finally allowed himself to lean back, to stop carrying everything alone, even if just for a moment. And in the quiet warmth of your chambers, with Vaella’s laughter drifting in the background and another child growing unseen beneath your heart, the two of you sat together, grief, responsibility, fear, and love all intertwined. Not as heir and princess, not as future king and queen. Simply as husband and wife.
______
The morning was quiet, an unusually rare thing in the Red Keep. No councillors waited outside the door, no petitions pressed for attention, no visitors demanding your husband's time before dawn. There was only you, him, and the soft golden light filtering through the curtains, as the castle slowly stirred to life around you. Vaella was still asleep in the nursery, or at least the nurses had not yet come rushing after her, what a miracle that was. You lay curled against Valarr’s side beneath the blankets, savoring the rare luxury of doing absolutely nothing. For several minutes, neither of you spoke, and the silence was comfortable, familiar, an unspoken rhythm built over years. Valarr’s arm rested loosely around your waist, while his other hand had somehow found its way beneath the blankets. At present, his fingertips were absentmindedly tracing small circles across the slight swell beneath your nightgown. You glanced down at his hand, then back up at his face.
“You realize there’s barely anything there,” you said softly.
His eyes remained closed. “Hm,” he replied, as if still lost in sleep.
“A bump the size of an apple doesn’t require this much attention,” you added, raising an eyebrow.
“Hm,” he echoed lazily.
You narrowed your eyes, amused. Finally, Valarr opened one eye. “I disagree,” he said softly. A laugh escaped you. His hand moved again, lingering over your stomach, protective and gentle. You knew he didn’t even realize he was doing it anymore, not consciously. Since Ashford, he seemed drawn toward the reassurance that the people he loved were still here, still safe, still real. That realization made your chest ache softly, nothing painful, just a gentle ache that reminded you how fragile it all was.
“What are you hoping for?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Valarr glanced down at your stomach, then back up at your face. “A healthy child,” he said quickly.
You rolled your eyes, smiling. “There he is,” you teased.
His mouth twitched into a faint smile. “What?” he asked.
“The future king giving the right answer,” you said with a playful grin.
“It is the right answer,” he replied, voice calm.
“It is,” you agreed. “But it’s not the honest one,” you added softly.
That earned a genuine laugh from him, one that lit up the morning like sunlight spilling through the windows. Valarr looked away briefly, caught in your teasing. You knew him well enough to see the slight flush of embarrassment, he couldn’t help but smile at your persistence.
“Oh,” you said, leaning in closer.
“No,” he protested, voice thick with mock defensiveness.
“Oh, yes,” you countered.
“Alysanne,” he groaned.
“You want a son,” you declared triumphantly, voice playful but pointed.
His groan was both amused and resigned. “I did not say that,” he muttered.
“You didn’t have to.”
His expression became long-suffering, yet it only made you laugh all the more.
“I already gave you a daughter,” you teased.
“A remarkable daughter,” he replied, a hint of pride slipping into his voice.
“Flatterer,” you chuckled.
“It’s true,” he said softly, eyes shining as they lingered on Vaella’s sleeping form in your mind.
You tilted your head, studying him. “You do want a son,” you pressed gently.
Valarr hesitated only briefly before sighing. “A little,” he admitted softly.
You laughed, feeling victorious. “A little,” you repeated gleefully. You couldn’t help but grin at your victory. Finally, Valarr reached out and pinched your side lightly, earning an offended gasp from you.
“That was unnecessary,” you protested.
“It was extremely necessary,” he said with a smirk. You snorted, then settled back against him again, comforted and warm. For a few moments, the conversation drifted away, the quiet morning wrapping around you both. Until Valarr broke the silence with a question that caught you off guard.
“Have you thought about names?” You looked up, surprised. He was gazing down at your stomach again, thoughtful, quiet, something softening in his expression that you recognized immediately. The shift was almost imperceptible, but it was there. You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers. “What names have you thought about?” you asked softly.
He didn’t answer right away, the silence stretching comfortably between you. Not uncomfortable, just reflective. Finally, he spoke, his voice gentle. “If it’s a boy,” he said softly, “I’d like to call him Baelor.”
Your heart clenched at once. You had known it would be. Still, hearing it aloud made it real in a different way. The room grew quieter. The morning seemed softer, the light gentler. Valarr’s gaze never left your stomach, as if he was already imagining the child, imagining introducing a son to the father he loved so much. Only to remember he never could.
“He would like that,” you whispered softly. Valarr swallowed, his throat working, silent for a moment. “I hope so,” he finally said, the vulnerability in those words nearly breaking your heart. Because suddenly, he no longer sounded like an heir or a prince. He sounded like a son, a son who missed his father, who wished he could ask for his advice just once more. You squeezed his hand gently. “He adored you,” you said softly.
Valarr closed his eyes briefly, a faint, sad smile touching his lips, so warm and bittersweet. “He adored Vaella,” he whispered.
“He absolutely did,” you said softly, a small laugh escaping both of you because that was undeniably true. You settled closer against him, resting your head on his shoulder.
“If this baby is a girl,” he murmured, “then I suppose you already have twelve names prepared.”
You gasped, feigning offense. “I do not,” you protested.
“You absolutely do,” he teased, smiling.
“I have maybe three,” you admitted.
“Three?”
“Maybe four,” you said with a mischievous grin. He laughed, and the sound filled the room. It was the kind of laugh that had become rarer in these past months, yet hearing it now made you realize how much you’d missed it. His hand drifted back to your stomach, resting there protectively, lovingly, hopeful and neither of you spoke again for a while, the future still uncertain, the grief still lingering. Some mornings, it would always be there. But lying together beneath the blankets, with your daughter sleeping nearby and another child growing quietly beneath your heart, the future suddenly felt a little less frightening.
______
The morning light spills softly through the curtains, casting a gentle glow across the chamber. For several blissful seconds, you lie there, savoring the quiet serenity. Then you hear a cough. Deep, rough, and unmistakably alarming. Your eyes snap open immediately. Valarr is sitting on the edge of the bed, and even from behind, you can tell something is wrong. Your stomach tightens instinctively.
“Valarr?” you ask, voice edged with concern.
He glances over his shoulder, and the moment you see his face, you sit upright with growing alarm. Gods. He looks terrible. Pale, far too pale. There’s a sheen of sweat across his forehead despite the chamber being pleasantly cool, and dark shadows linger beneath his eyes, shadows that had not been there yesterday. Your concern is immediate and sharp. “What happened to you?” you demand softly.
Valarr blinks, confused, as if the answer should be obvious. “What?” he responds, voice hoarse.
“You look awful,” you say, unable to hide your worry. Before you can stop yourself, the words come rushing out. He actually laughs. A mistake. Because the laugh immediately turns into another cough, rough and rattling. You narrow your eyes, displeased.
Valarr waves a dismissive hand, trying to brush it off. “I’m fine,” he insists stubbornly.
“No,” you reply, crossing your arms.
“I am,” he counters, voice firm but strained.
“No.”
The word leaves your lips before you can think, sharp and unwavering. He looks genuinely offended. You throw back the blankets and move closer, placing your hand against his forehead. His skin is warm, far too warm.
“Alysanne,” he begins, voice pleading.
“You have a fever,” you cut him off gently but firmly.
“I do not,” he protests.
“You absolutely do,” you insist, gaze narrowing. Valarr sighs, the sigh turning into another cough. Your patience begins to wear thin.
“I have meetings this morning,” he mutters, trying to regain some control.
“No,” you say decisively. “You need the maester,” you state plainly. He looks ready to argue further, but another cough interrupts him. You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. Valarr glares, stubborn and stubbornly miserable. You feel remarkably vindicated.
“Bed,” you command, voice firm with authority. He stares at you, defeated, then slowly lowers himself back onto the mattress, still looking deeply unhappy about it. You lean down and kiss his forehead, gently, despite his stubbornness because even through his stubbornness, he looks genuinely miserable. “Good,” you say softly.
He mutters, “I dislike you,” but the words are weak, and his expression suggests he knows it’s true.
“You adore me,” you reply with a smile. His face, stubborn and proud, suggests otherwise, yet you know the truth. And you will see to it that he stays in bed until he’s better.
_____
By midday, the weather was perfect. Clear skies stretching endlessly overhead, the gardens overflowing with vibrant flowers. Usually, you would be enjoying the warmth, the scent of blossoms, the gentle hum of courtly life. But today, a part of your mind remains stubbornly upstairs, fixed on one thing: your husband. He had looked far too ill for your liking this morning. The memory of his pale face, the sweat on his brow, the trembling cough, those images refuse to fade. You push the thought aside, forcing yourself to focus on the present. Vaella is sitting in the grass between you and her nurse, enthusiastically attempting to destroy a perfectly innocent flower, her face lit with innocent delight. A lady’s maid nearby is laughing softly, and despite yourself, a small smile twitches at your lips. Gods, you love that child. One of the younger ladies of court pauses nearby, then another, and soon several more have gathered beneath the shade of the trees. The conversation drifts lazily to fashion, the weather, court gossip, nothing urgent, nothing pressing. Until someone casually mentions, “Have you heard about the spring sickness?”
Your ears immediately prick up. “The what?” you ask sharply.
One of the women blinks, surprised. “You haven’t heard?”
You shake your head, unease creeping up your spine. The women exchange glances, none of them reassuring. “The sickness spreading through the city,” one says quietly. Your stomach tightens.
“It started among the poorer districts,” another adds, voice low and careful.
“Or at least that’s what people say,” someone else murmurs.
“And now?”
The response is swift and grim. “Everywhere.”
A cold weight settles in your chest. You look between them, trying to gauge whether they’re exaggerating. But their faces tell the truth, this is no rumor, no idle gossip.
“We’ve already heard dozens have died,” someone breathes.
“Dozens? Perhaps more,” another whispers.
One woman lowers her voice almost to a whisper. “My brother says entire households have fallen ill.” A heavy silence follows. “There are cases inside the Red Keep now as well,” someone adds grimly.
The world seems to narrow around you, just slightly, but enough to make your stomach churn. “What?” The word escapes your lips before you can think.
“Servants,” a woman says matter-of-factly.
“Kitchen workers, stable boys,” another adds.
A third joins in, eyes darkening. “I heard two chambermaids were sent away yesterday.”
Your pulse begins to quicken, without your permission, without your control. And suddenly, Valarr’s face flashes through your mind, pale, sweating, coughing, so exhausted this morning. You stare at the women, but your thoughts drown out the conversation.. numbers, rumors, deaths. You hear none of it. Your focus is entirely elsewhere. A terrible, growing dread takes root in your chest, slow and relentless. Surely not. Surely it cannot be related. People fall ill all the time with fevers, coughs, common ailments. And yet, your mind keeps returning to the sight of him, this morning’s warmth beneath your hand, the exhaustion in his eyes, the rough cough that still echoes in your ears. Gods, his cough. You glance toward Vaella, happily sitting in the grass, completely unaware of the danger, but her innocent presence only makes the fear worse, tightening your chest. Without warning, you rise so abruptly that the others fall silent.
“My lady?” someone asks, concern flickering across her face.
You force a smile, a poor, fragile thing. “I’m afraid I need to return inside,” you say hurriedly. The nurse immediately notices your expression, concern flashing across her face. You kneel beside Vaella, brushing a hand through her silver-gold hair before looking up. “I’d like you to keep her out here for a little while longer,” you instruct softly.
The nurse blinks, surprised. “My lady?” she asks.
“And stay with her,” you add, voice steady but urgent. Your lady’s maid watches you closely now, understanding dawning. Without another word, you stand and already turn back toward the castle, your steps quickening despite yourself. And for the first time all day, a genuine fear begins to creep into your heart, an icy, relentless dread that this morning’s fever could be something far worse. You need to see your husband. You need to know he’s alright. You need reassurance that this morning was nothing more than a common fever, nothing dangerous, nothing to fear.
_____
You quicken your steps through the corridors of the Red Keep, clutching your skirts in one hand while your lady’s maid struggles to keep pace beside you. Every terrible possibility seems to press against your mind, demanding attention. Perhaps the maester was mistaken.Perhaps Valarr’s fever has already broken.Perhaps he was merely sleeping. But then the sight that greets you outside your chambers stops you cold. Two guards stand at the door, unmoving, silent. Not unusual in itself, but what is strange is that neither steps aside when they see you approaching. Your steps slow, then halt, a cold prickling down your spine.
“I’d like to see my husband,” you say, voice trembling with authority.
Neither guard moves. For a long moment, neither speaks.
You stare, waiting, expecting one of them to step aside, to give way. But they remain firm, silent.
“My lady,” one finally says, voice cautious, “the maester has instructed that nobody enter.”
Your breath catches. Surely you have misheard. “Pardon me?”
The guard swallows visibly. “The maester’s orders,” he repeats softly.
You stare at him, then at the door, then back again, disbelief washing over you. The absurdity hits you all at once. “Those are my chambers.”
The guard shifts uncomfortably. “My lady-”
“That is my husband,” you interrupt sharply, voice rising. “Open the door.” Neither man moves. Something inside you snaps, just enough. “Open,” you demand, voice cracking through the corridor like a lash. The silence stretches. Your lady’s maid looks alarmed and the guards look worse and still, the door remains closed. Your pulse races, pounding in your ears, as a flood of horrible thoughts rush through your mind. Who are they to keep me out? “Move,” you command desperately.
“My lady-”
“I said move.”
The second guard takes a small step forward, neither threatening nor yielding. Just blocking and fury wells up inside you, an unrelenting, burning fury.
“Who do you think you are?” your voice rises, fierce and unyielding. “You do not keep me from my own husband.”
Nearby servants stop to stare, but your focus blurs out their whispers. “I want to see him.”
“My lady,” the maester’s voice finally cuts through the tense silence. The old man emerges from within, closing the door quietly behind him.
You take two quick steps toward him.
“What is going on?” you demand, voice thick with emotion. “I want to see my husband.”
The maester’s face softens, and that gentle expression only makes everything worse.
“My lady,” he begins carefully.
“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head, panic rising. “What happened?”
He exhales slowly, choosing his words with painstaking care, more carefully than you want. “It appears Prince Valarr has contracted the spring sickness.”
The words echo coldly in your mind, like a death knell. Spring sickness. Your stomach plummets. “No,” you whisper instinctively, without hesitation. “No.”
The maester remains silent. You stare at him, then at the door, then back again. “He has a fever,” you say desperately, voice trembling.
“My lady-”
“He was coughing,” you press on, voice rising. A pause. “That doesn’t mean-”
“The symptoms are consistent,” you cut him off, voice sharp and unwavering.
The words feel like knives. You hate him for saying them. You hate him for looking sympathetic. You hate him for standing between you and that door. “I want to see him,” you say again, voice quieter but more dangerous.
The maester shakes his head. “He’s sleeping,” he insists gently.
“I don’t care,” you reply, voice trembling with emotion. “I said I don’t care.”
The corridor falls into oppressive silence.
Even the servants seem afraid to move.
You take another step forward. “That is MY husband,” you whisper, trembling.
“And he is very ill,” the maester responds softly, almost soothing. “Just like many others,” he adds, too softly.
Your heart stumbles. Many others. The words linger, wrong and bitter. You think of the women in the gardens, the rumors, the deaths. No. It cannot be. You look at him, exhausted, worried and somehow sad. And for the first time, genuine fear clenches your chest, fear, not concern, not unease. Real, visceral.
“He’ll recover,” you say aloud, as if speaking it might make it true, as if hearing your own words could somehow will it to happen.
The maester hesitates, and that hesitation terrifies you. “I want to see him,” you say more softly, almost pleading.
He sighs, then finally, with gentle regret, says, “You must think of your children.”
Your breath catches. “My children?”
“Princess Vaella,” he says carefully, “and the child you carry.”
Your hand instinctively moves to your stomach. Protectively.
“This illness spreads easily,” he warns quietly. “Very easily.”
You stare at him, trying to comprehend. Trying not to.
“If you become ill-”
“I won’t,” you cut him off fiercely.
“You do not know that,” he replies gently.
The words hang heavy in the small space. The corridor feels too tight, too warm, too crowded. The maester lowers his voice, as if reluctant to say what must be said aloud. “There have been many deaths in the city,” he murmurs quietly.
Your chest tightens painfully. “No,” you whisper.
“They are true,” he confirms softly.
And in that moment, fear surges so sharp and unrelenting. Your pulse pounds deafeningly. “If the worst were to happen-”
“No,” you shout, almost violent in your denial.
The maester swallows, then presses on. “If the worst were to happen, my lady. Princess Vaella could lose both her parents, that’s why I must keep you from this chapter. I do apologize.”
The world stops. Time halts in that cruel instant. You stare, unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to process. Vaella. Orphaned. The nightmare flashes in your mind, your child, alone, without her parents.
Gone. Valarr gone. You gone. Vaella alone. Your stomach twists violently. “No,” you whisper, broken and hollow. The maester steps closer, not quite touching but sympathetic. “We are doing everything we can,” he says softly. “The prince is receiving the best care available.”
Your eyes drift to the door, your husband’s room, beyond which he lies sick and alone. The tears finally spill over, hot, silent and unstoppable. You wipe them away angrily, refusing to break now, not here, not yet. The maester says something else, but you don’t hear it. Because there’s only one question left, one terrible, unspoken question.
Your voice barely audible, trembling with fear. “Is my husband going to die?”
to be continued...
_____
tag list: @gknj9495 @hydracassiopeiadarablack @062292 @white-olive @xxvelvetxxxx
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DONT HATE ME. I HAD to split it bc this whole chapter is so fucking long and trust me, ones feelings can only take so much at a time.
also rereading it now I have realized that the last thing he said to her (for now or not, won't give spoilers) is I DONT LIKE YOU. what am I doing to myself.
Anyway, the next part will be the final chapter of this story. someone hold my hand through it.
also, writing this the only thing I could think off was this stupid 500 miles song.
“Ashford?” you ask, your brow furrowing as you look up from Vaella, who sits comfortably in your lap, her tiny fingers clutching a corner of a cloth she’s decided is far more interesting than any of the toys scattered around her, chewing on it with determined concentration. Your voice carries a note of confusion, almost a gentle challenge, as you meet Valarr’s gaze. “What’s in Ashford? Why are we going there?”
His smile widens, a slow, deliberate curve that hints at amusement but also something more layered beneath it. “My father believes it is necessary to follow the invitation to the tournament,” he explains, his tone even, as if stating a matter of fact. “He thinks it’s important that we attend.”
You blink, caught off guard. “A tournament,” you repeat, voice uncertain. “And we’re going because he-”
He nods, eyes steady. “Because he believes it’s significant enough to warrant the Crown’s presence.”
You stare at him, unblinking, trying to process the implication. The idea of such an event taking place in a town you barely knew exists feels distant and strange, and yet the seriousness in his voice makes it clear this is no ordinary affair.
Your stomach tightens, a visceral reaction to the implication that this is no ordinary event, that it is, in fact, significant enough to warrant royal presence. You shift slightly in your chair, instinctively feeling the need to protect Vaella, to keep her close, even as your mind races ahead. “And so we are going,” you say, your tone quiet but firm, a mixture of acceptance and trepidation.
“Most of us are,” Valarr confirms, and you frown, the word lingering on your lips.
“Most?”
He nods, a slight incline of his head, and explains simply, “Matarys and my grandfather are staying behind. The rest of us is going.” His words are careful but confident, laying out the broad strokes of what will be a significant journey.
Your gaze drifts downward, settling on Vaella, who is blissfully unaware of the storm of thoughts swirling inside you. She is six months old, nearly seven, an age that feels both impossibly young and heartbreakingly grown-up all at once. Gods, where has the time gone? One moment, she fits entirely within the crook of your arm, her tiny body warm and soft, and now she has opinions about everything, has recently discovered that she can throw things with purpose, and is already testing boundaries in ways that make your heart ache with both pride and dread. Your eyes lift again, seeking reassurance from Valarr, and your voice slips out before you can stop it, quiet and trembling, “You mean to bring her.”
It is not a question, because you already know the answer. His expression confirms your fears immediately. “I do,” he replies simply, as if there is no doubt in his mind, as if this decision has already been made long before the words leave his lips. You stare at him, then at your daughter, then back at him again, feeling the weight of the reality settling over you. “A fortnight on the road,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else, the words thick with apprehension.
“Approximately,” Valarr agrees, his tone steady but gentle, and you shake your head slowly, overwhelmed by the thought. The thought of traveling with a baby, on a journey that could last days, with all its unpredictable dangers and uncertainties, grips your stomach tightly. Not because you doubt the servants or the arrangements, those are well in hand, but because she is your daughter, your small, fragile, precious girl. The thought of terrible things happening out there, far from the safety of the Red Keep, makes your throat tighten in fear, and your mind races with all the dangers you can imagine: roads that might be treacherous, wheels that might break, her crying through the night, her becoming ill and no healer nearby.
“You make it sound very simple,” you say softly, voice trembling with unspoken worry, almost accusing, because the reality is far more complex than his calm words suggest.
Valarr’s expression softens at once, and he replies quietly, “No. I don’t.” His words are measured, reassuring even, but beneath them, you sense the weight of his own fears, the quiet acknowledgment that this journey will be dangerous and uncertain, no matter how carefully they prepare.
You turn your gaze away, seeking solace in the view beyond the window, in the sprawling city below, in anything but him, because you already know that he understands all too well. He always does. The silence thickens, unspoken fears lingering in the space between you, until finally, you voice the question that trembles on your lips, a confession of your deepest worry. “What if she becomes ill?”
The words escape before you can contain them, a raw, trembling admission of your fear. You hate the vulnerability it reveals, hate the way it exposes how fragile your hope is. Still, it slips out, and you hear the fear in your own voice, the trembling that betrays your composure. “What if she catches something?”
There is a pause, a beat of silence as Valarr considers your words, then responds softly, “What if she develops a fever halfway through the journey?” The question hangs in the air, echoing your own worst imaginings.
You try to speak again, to voice the next concern, but the words stumble and falter, overwhelmed by the endless stream of ‘what ifs’ that flood your mind.. what if the roads are perilous, what if the wheels break, what if she cannot sleep, what if she cries all night, what if.. The cycle continues, relentless and exhausting, each ‘what if’ more terrifying than the last. Valarr observes you quietly, his patience evident, and when he finally speaks, his tone is gentle but unwavering. “Alysanne,” he says softly, and you hate that tone because it always means he sees straight through you, into your deepest fears. “You are frightened.”
You laugh softly, a humorless sound that echoes in the quiet room. “An excellent observation,” you reply, your voice trembling with emotion.
His expression remains unchanged, calm and steady. “You think I am not?” he counters, and for a moment, you are caught off guard by the vulnerability in his voice, the raw honesty that lies beneath his composed exterior. You look back at him, really look at him, and for the first time, you notice the faint tension around his eyes.. the hesitation, the concern that mirrors your own. His hand reaches across the space between you, gently brushing one tiny finger against Vaella’s delicate hand, his gaze never leaving her. “I worry every day,” he admits softly, “every time she sleeps longer than usual, every time she coughs, and every time she refuses a meal.” His voice is almost a whisper, but each word carries the weight of genuine fear.
Your chest tightens painfully because those are the very things you notice in the dead of night, the things that make your heart race and your mind spiral into worst-case scenarios. His words cut through your defenses, exposing the shared concern that binds you both in this moment of vulnerability. “You don’t seem worried,” you say, almost accusing, because you see the faint smile touching his lips, a smile that contains both reassurance and an unspoken acknowledgment of the fears he conceals.
“That is because one of us has to remain sensible,” he replies, and you roll your eyes, exasperation surfacing despite yourself. “There he is,” you mutter under your breath, a mixture of affection and frustration.
“Who is there?” he asks, amusement flickering in his eyes.
“My husband,” you say simply, and his smile grows, that familiar, boyish grin that always manages to soften the tension between you. For a moment, the weight of worry eases, only slightly, because the truth remains that the prospect of being away from the Red Keep for so long, leaving behind everything that is familiar and safe, fills your stomach with an uncomfortable ache. The nursery, the maesters, the familiar routines, they are all here, within these walls, where everything you need resides. Out there, beyond the city, lies uncertainty, danger, and the unknown.
Valarr rises from his chair then, moving smoothly to kneel beside you, a gesture of comfort that he has perfected over time. His hands gently take yours, warm and steady, and his voice remains calm, reassuring. “We won’t be alone,” he promises softly, “we will bring nurses, the maester, additional healers if necessary, the safest carriages available, and the finest escort in the realm.” His words are deliberate, each one reinforcing the lengths they will go to protect Vaella. “If she so much as sneezes wrong, half the royal household will panic.”
Despite yourself, you cannot help but laugh at that.. a genuine, spontaneous sound because his certainty is oddly comforting. Valarr’s smile widens, confident and reassuring. “We will stop whenever she needs,” he continues, his tone gentle but firm. “Whenever you need.”
He pauses, then adds softly, “I will make certain both of you are safe.” His thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles, a tender gesture that speaks of unwavering commitment. “You have my word.”
You hold his gaze, feeling the weight of his promise, and it becomes clear in that moment that, despite the dangers and uncertainties, you trust him implicitly because when he looks at you like that, with such conviction and quiet strength, you find it impossible to doubt. Not because he can control everything, nor because he promises that nothing will ever go wrong, but because if something does happen, he will be there. The quiet certainty of that truth settles deep within your chest, and you realize that you would rather face whatever awaits beside him than face the future alone.
Slowly, you exhale, a breath of reluctant acceptance. “Very well,” you say softly, feeling a small yet undeniable wave of relief wash over you.
“Very well?” he repeats, a grin spreading across his face as he leans in to kiss your forehead, the late afternoon sunlight spilling across the room, casting a golden glow over everything. “We’ll go.”
His smile blooms fully now.. warm, boyish, and just a little too pleased with himself. “You sound thrilled.”
“I am trying to be brave,” you reply, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite the lingering worry.
“You are very brave,” he says softly, teasing but sincere.
You narrow your eyes, warning, “Careful.”
He laughs then, a genuine, easy laugh that fills the room with warmth, and his gaze drifts toward Vaella, who has somehow managed to fall asleep despite the lively discussion about her future. For a moment, he simply watches her, smiling softly and thoughtfully, as if imagining everything that will come to pass. When he finally turns back to you, there is an unexpected certainty in his gaze, something hopeful that makes your heart flutter in spite of yourself.
“You know,” he says quietly, “I think it’s going to be wonderful.”
You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “A fortnight on the road with a baby?”
“Yes,” he replies simply, grin widening. “And a crowded tourney.”
“You mean that town barely anybody has heard of?”
His grin turns mischievous, wider still. “Especially that.”
You shake your head with a mixture of disbelief and reluctant amusement, knowing deep down that no matter how impossible this journey might seem, his unwavering confidence makes it somehow feel manageable.
As he leans forward to kiss your forehead, the late afternoon sun casting a warm glow around you both, you find yourself quietly thinking that perhaps Ashford remains a distant horizon, and the journey ahead may be more daunting than you wish to admit.
______
The journey is not nearly as terrible as you had imagined. It is worse. At least during the first few hours.
You are convinced of it.
The carriage itself is magnificent by any reasonable standard, an enormous royal wheelhouse draped in Targaryen colors, fitted with every comfort wealth can provide. Thick cushions line the benches on either side, embroidered blankets and soft furs piled in every corner, creating an environment that should be cozy. The windows are covered by curtains of deep crimson silk, tied back when the weather is kind, and beneath the seats, several chests have been secured, holding everything from additional gowns to supplies enough to survive a siege, just in case.
In the center of it all rests a carefully arranged nest of blankets and cushions, where Vaella sleeps peacefully, entirely unaware of your mounting anxiety.
“Do you think she is too warm?” you ask, glancing anxiously at the nurse, who looks up from her embroidery, her expression calm and patient.
“No, my lady,” she replies softly.
You nod, trying to settle your nerves.
Several moments pass in silence, broken only by the gentle sway of the carriage and the rhythmic creak of wheels over uneven road. Your gaze remains fixed on Vaella, who remains blissfully asleep, her tiny fist tucked beneath her cheek. She looks so peaceful, so perfect, entirely unaware that her mother is losing her mind with worry.
You envy her innocence.
The carriage sways again, each bump making your heart leap into your throat. Every time a wheel hits a rut, you find yourself clutching the edge of your seat, eyes darting to Vaella’s face.
“What if-” you begin, voice trembling, and immediately, the nurse’s kind voice cuts through your thoughts.
“My lady,” she says patiently, “she is perfectly well.”
You sigh, shoulders sagging as the tension in your chest eases just a little. “I know,” you whisper, but the words feel hollow. Because, despite your logic, emotion refuses to listen. Your mind races with every worst-case scenario, every possible danger out on those treacherous roads.
Your eyes flick to Vaella’s tiny face, her delicate features calm, her chest rising and falling gently. She’s so small, so fragile, your heart aches with the fear that something might go wrong.
“Is she too cold?” you ask suddenly, voice brittle with worry.
The nurse glances up from her embroidery with a gentle smile. “No, my lady.”
You nod again, unable to shake the nagging fear.
Several moments pass, then you venture another question, voice barely above a whisper. “Is the road not too rough?”
“No, my lady,” she replies softly, as if reading your mind.
You glance down at Vaella again, her breathing even, her tiny fists relaxed. Not a concern in the world. You envy her again, this peaceful oblivion. The carriage moves smoothly now, the wheels hitting the road with a gentle rhythm. Yet every bump still makes your stomach tighten. Your gaze stays fixed on Vaella, watching her tiny chest rise and fall, waiting, listening, fearing. Until, suddenly a small noise emerges from the nest of blankets. Then another.
Your body stiffens. Instantly, you sit upright.
The nurse’s lips curl into a faint, reassuring smile. “Here we are,” she says softly.
Vaella stretches, a tiny arm emerges dramatically from the blankets, then another. Her eyes blink open, brown and curious. You feel your entire body relax as her gaze drifts upward and she notices you. The smile that blooms on her face is enormous, bright, and completely unfair. It’s as if she’s been waiting for this moment her entire tiny life.
“Oh, there you are,” you murmur, voice trembling with relief and affection.
Vaella responds with a happy sound, immediately attempting to eat one of the blankets.
The nurse swiftly intercepts her, and your daughter objects loudly, protesting as only a princess can. Then she discovers a tassel hanging from one of the curtains, a new target, and her attention shifts entirely.
The journey continues, and against all reason, you begin to relax. Because she is happy.. more than happy. She is fascinated. Every time the curtains move, she laughs. Every sway of the carriage makes her squeal with delight. Every new sound, every sparkle of sunlight, seems to captivate her utterly.
At one point, she becomes utterly mesmerized by a ray of sunlight streaming through the window, her tiny face lit with wonder. You are not entirely sure she’s ever been happier. The sight makes you laugh softly, a genuine, warm sound.
Perhaps Valarr had been right. Perhaps.
The procession begins to slow, the sound of hooves fading into the distance. Outside, voices rise, first faint, then growing clearer, the first stop. Almost immediately, Vaella perks up, as if she senses something. Her tiny body stiffens, her eyes brightening. You are still adjusting her blanket when a familiar voice floats through the open window.
“Are you alive in there?”
You smile before you even reach the curtain, knowing exactly who it is.
The curtain is pulled back and you meet Velars gaze. His dark hair is windswept from hours on horseback, the sun casting a faint flush across his cheeks. Dust clings to his riding clothes and boots, yet somehow he looks entirely pleased with himself, an expression that seems to be a talent of his.
You can’t help but smile. “Only barely,” you reply, voice dripping with mock exhaustion.
His gaze immediately finds Vaella. “How is she?” he asks, the concern plain in his voice.
You laugh at the obvious question. “The real reason you’re here,” you say with a teasing smile.
Valarr grins but ignores your words, eyes fixed on Vaella. “How is she?”
Before you can answer, Vaella suddenly spots him. For one heartbeat, she simply stares.
Then recognition floods her face. Her enormous smile appears instantly, joyful, bright, and delighted. A squeal of happiness escapes her, and Valarr visibly melts.
You watch it happen, one moment, he is Prince Valarr Targaryen, the next, he is simply a father.
“Well,” he says immediately, grinning from ear to ear, “there she is.”
Vaella begins kicking her legs excitedly, squealing with delight. The nurse laughs, the lady’s maid smiles, and your daughter practically throws herself toward the open window.
Valarr reaches inside, letting her grab one of his fingers. The triumph on her face is immediate: she has captured her father, again.
“She has no idea where she is,” you add, almost as an afterthought.
“And yet she’s very happy and content,” Valarr says simply.
And you can’t argue with that.
Vaella is currently making victorious noises, kicking her legs, grasping at everything in sight.
Valarr looks between the two of you, his expression tender. “How was the journey?”
“Ask me again in a week,” you reply, voice dry.
He laughs, then his gaze softens. “You’re alright?”
The question is for you, and the warmth in his voice makes your chest tighten.
You nod. “I’m alright.”
“And her?”
“Also alright,” you say softly.
His eyes drift toward Vaella, still clutching his finger, still smiling, still utterly enchanted by the fact that her father has appeared.
His expression becomes impossibly tender. Gods. You love him. You truly do.
“If anything changes,” he says quietly, “anything at all, we stop.”
You open your mouth, but he continues anyway. “If she’s uncomfortable, we stop. If you’re uncomfortable, we stop. If either of you need anything, we stop.”
His voice is gentle but firm. Certain.
“I don’t care how far we travel in a day,” he adds, reaching through the window to briefly squeeze your hand. “The two of you are the priority.”
Emotion catches in your throat, a familiar warmth, the kind that comes from being loved well. For a moment, no one speaks.
Then Vaella, still clutching her father’s finger, suddenly decides to try to eat it.
Valarr looks horrified and you burst into genuine laughter.
_____
Shortly after midday, the rain begins.
At first, nobody seems particularly concerned. A brief shower is hardly unusual on these dusty roads, and the royal progress pushes onward with little interruption, droplets tapping a steady rhythm against the carriage roof. The scent of wet leather and earth hangs in the air, but it’s a familiar, fleeting thing, nothing to worry about.
Then the rain intensifies and then it grows heavier and heavier.
By the time evening falls, the roads have transformed into rivers of mud, swirling and churning beneath the carriage wheels. The ground is saturated, the earth unable to absorb any more. The carriage lurches violently, jolting you forward, and you instinctively reach out, clutching the side of the bench with a sharp gasp.
“Gods,” you curse softly, your heart pounding in your chest.
Across from you, the nurse barely glances up from her embroidery, her expression calm, almost resigned. Your daughter remains undisturbed, nestled in her blankets, a tiny, serene bundle, utterly unaware of the storm’s fury.
The carriage tilts again, a violent roll that makes your stomach lurch. Another jolt follows, and suddenly, everything halts.
Completely.
The silence is unnatural, wrong, thick and oppressive. Outside, men are shouting, their voices muffled and distant, but the horses are snorting, restless, the rain pounding so loudly against the roof that it nearly sounds like stones being thrown.
You exchange a glance with the nurse, your breath catching.
The lady’s maid has already moved toward the small window, peering outside with a frown. Her face tightens as she winces.
“What is happening?” you ask, your voice strained.
She peeks out, then immediately winces again, her face pale.
“The wheel appears to be stuck, my lady,” she reports quietly.
You close your eyes, trying to breathe, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart. For a brief moment you allow your mind to quiet.
Then you open your eyes again and immediately find Vaella.
She’s sleeping peacefully, her tiny chest rising and falling, her delicate face untouched by worry or fear. Still unaware that her mother’s mind is racing through every disaster imaginable.
You rise carefully from your seat and move closer, kneeling beside her nest of blankets and cushions. One hand finds her forehead, warm, normal, just as it should be. Relief floods through you, a fragile, fleeting thing.
Until a distant rumble of thunder echoes across the countryside.
Your stomach drops.
“No,” you whisper before you even realize it.
The nurse looks up, concern flickering in her eyes. “My lady?”
“We should not have come,” you say softly, voice trembling. “We should have stayed in King’s Landing.” The words taste bitter as they leave your lips, the truth you’ve been suppressing growing larger with every mile.
“My lady-”
“We’re stranded in the middle of nowhere,” you cut her off, voice trembling with dread. Another crack of thunder rolls overhead, closer now, more insistent.
“We have a baby,” you add, voice cracking.
The nurse’s expression softens, her calm almost maternal. “We have an entire royal household,” she says gently.
You shake your head, frustration and fear bubbling over. “I do not care about the royal household,” you snap. “I care about her. About my child.”
She remains silent, wisely, knowing better than to argue.
Outside, the rain only worsens, beating against the carriage like a thousand drums, relentless and unyielding. Hours seem to stretch endlessly, each minute feeling like an eternity, each thunderclap a blow to your nerves. But in truth, it’s probably far less time.
Then, suddenly, the carriage door swings open.
Cold air rushes in like a gust from the depths of some dark abyss, sharp and biting. One of the household staff appears, soaked through, water streaming from his clothes, his face grave.
“My lady,” he says, voice steady despite the downpour.
You rise immediately, heart pounding. “What is happening?”
“The storm is worsening,” he replies quickly. “We will make camp. Prince Baelor has ordered the royal pavilions erected immediately.”
You blink, stunned.
“Camp?” you echo, voice hoarse.
The idea of spending the night in a tent feels absurd.. terrifying, even. Unfathomable. Entirely unacceptable in your mind.
The man nods, as if that’s the end of it. “The pavilion prepared for Your Highness is nearly ready.”
You close your eyes, feeling the weight of helplessness pressing down on you. Gods help you.
______
The transfer itself is unexpectedly smooth, almost rehearsed. Several servants arrive swiftly, carrying large waxed cloaks and canvas coverings, designed precisely for weather like this, thick, waterproof, and practical. Their movements are coordinated, efficient, almost practiced. Vaella remains asleep throughout the chaos, her tiny form cradled securely in blankets and furs, an achievement that borders on miraculous.
With careful hands, the servants lift her, wrapping her snugly. You follow immediately, your heart pounding with a mixture of relief and dread. The cold is biting and the wind cuts through your layers like a blade. Mud clings to everything.. your hair, your clothes, the carriage, the ground beneath your feet.
For a terrible moment, as you rush through the storm toward the waiting pavilion, every fear you've harbored threatens to overwhelm you. Every nightmare, every worry spirals into a single, relentless thought: this is exactly what you feared.
And then, suddenly, you reach the tent and you stop.
The sight before you stops you cold.
The pavilion is enormous.
Not just a tent, not merely a temporary shelter. It’s an entire chamber built from sturdy canvas and thick ropes, designed to withstand the worst of storms and still provide comfort. The ground is already covered with rich carpets, muffling the sound of rain pounding against the fabric. Furniture has been unpacked and arranged.. an elegant, portable bed frame stands ready beneath layers of plush blankets and furs, a cradle already assembled beside it.
Candles flicker warmly throughout the space, casting a gentle, flickering glow against the canvas walls. A brazier in one corner glows softly, its warmth seeping into the air, creating a cozy haven amid the muddy chaos outside.
Considering it was assembled in the middle of a muddy field, it’s breathtaking.
The nurse’s smile is quiet but triumphant. “Told you,” she says softly.
You refuse to admit she may have had a point. Instead, you stand there, breath catching in your throat, trying to reconcile the storm’s fury outside with the warmth and order within.
_______
Vaella slips back into sleep, curled safely within her makeshift cradle.. warm, dry, perfectly content. The gentle rise and fall of her tiny chest brings a fragile peace to your heart. Yet, despite her repose, you remain restless, your mind refusing to settle.
Outside, the storm continues unabated. Rain lashes against the canvas roof, each drop a sharp percussion that echoes in your ears. The wind rattles the supports, causing the entire pavilion to shudder and groan. Every sound pulls your gaze toward your daughter, as if reassurance might be found in her peaceful slumber.
The nurse notices your unease. “My lady,” she whispers softly.
You lift your eyes. “Princess Vaella is quite safe,” she adds, her voice soothing.
“I know,” you reply, though the reassurance feels flimsy.
“You’ve checked her five times,” the nurse reminds gently.
“Actually, it was four,” you correct, almost defensively.
She studies you with a mild, knowing look, but neither of you has time to continue. The entrance flap suddenly parts, and you lift your chin sharply.
Valarr steps inside and instantly, you see that he’s lost his mind.
He’s drenched, not just damp or wet, but utterly soaked through. His hair is plastered to his forehead, water streaming down his face. Muddy footprints stain the carpets as he trudges inside, each step heavy with rain.
For a stunned moment, you simply stare.
“Gods,” you breathe.
Valarr blinks, eyes wide and unrepentant. “What?”
“You’re freezing,” you say sharply.
“I am not,” he protests, though the puddle forming beneath him tells another story.
“You’re dripping onto the floor,” you remind him, voice clipped.
He glances down and grimaces as a spreading puddle marks his passage.
Without hesitation, you rise. “Take those off,” you command.
He hesitates, mouth twitching in that infuriating way that always makes your blood boil.
“The coat,” you add, voice firmer. “Now.”
His brow rises. “Alysanne-”
“Your coat,” you insist, pointing.
He finally relents, a slow smile tugging at his lips, one that makes your patience snap.
“Don’t smile at me,” you warn.
“I wasn’t,” he says, feigning innocence.
“You were,” you retort, crossing your arms.
He shrugs, grinning wider. “I am being scolded.”
You huff, walking over to begin removing his soaked layers. The fabric is icy to the touch, absolutely frigid. You shoot him a sharp look. “How long have you been out there?”
“A while,” he admits, voice casual.
“A while,” you echo, feeling a flash of frustration. “We needed additional tents.”
He nods, unabashed, noticing your gaze. “Yes. We have people for that-”
“And yet you’re the one standing in the storm,” you say, eyes narrowing.
His grin returns, devilish and unrepentant. You could strangle him, lovingly, but still, you’re tempted.
You toss a blanket in his direction. “Sit.”
He obeys, far too quickly, a traitorous smile still lingering.
You drape the blanket around his shoulders, then do the same with another, before reaching out to touch his face. His skin is ice-cold, much too cold.
Your expression darkens. “You’re freezing,” you say softly.
“I’m fine,” he insists, though his eyes betray him.
“No, you’re not,” you reply, gently but firmly.
His smile softens, a flicker of tenderness in his gaze that always makes your resolve weaken.
“I am fine,” he repeats, voice more measured. “I promise.”
You hesitate, unsure whether to believe him. His thumb brushes your knuckles, a silent reassurance.
Outside, the storm continues to rage with relentless fury. Inside, the pavilion feels warm, safe, alive with quiet comfort. Vaella sleeps undisturbed. The fire crackles softly, casting a golden glow that chases away the shadows. The storm’s howling is distant, almost insignificant now.
Valarr looks at you, his expression tender and a little mischievous, making your defenses falter.
“You were far more worried about me than the storm,” he teases softly.
You scoff. “I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was worried about both,” you reply, crossing your arms, but your voice wavers.
He chuckles, a soft, victorious sound. You open your mouth to argue but then pause. Perhaps he’s not entirely wrong.
His smile widens, victorious and utterly unrepentant.
You hate when he does that.
A moment later, he reaches for your hand, gently pulling you down beside him on the bed. The warmth of his touch, the softness of the blankets, the peaceful sleeping form of your daughter nearby.. suddenly, the storm feels far away.
_____
By the time you finally arrive at Ashford, a deep conviction settles in, you could spend another day in a carriage and never willingly enter one again.
The journey itself has been tolerable. Not truly terrible. Vaella has been remarkably cheerful, her tiny face bright with curiosity and innocence. The weather, after the storm’s fury, has calmed considerably, leaving behind a cool, fresh air that feels almost cleansing. And Valarr, ever attentive, has spent the better part of two weeks appearing at your carriage window every few hours, checking that neither you nor your daughter have somehow perished in the wilderness.
Yet, none of that changes the fact that you are utterly exhausted.
The moment servants begin hauling trunks into the chambers assigned to your family, you turn to your lady’s maid with a single, decisive request. “I would like a bath.”
Immediately. Preferably before anyone asks anything else of you.
Luckily, your request is met with enthusiasm. The servants hustle into motion, steam rising from buckets of hot water, the scent of lavender and soap already filling the air. By the time Valarr returns briefly to change his clothes before slipping away again to attend his father, the bath is nearly ready.
“You look pleased,” he remarks, observing you from the doorway, a faint smile touching his lips.
You glance up from where you’re carefully removing your jewelry, a small, exhausted smile curling at your own lips. “I am about to sit in hot water,” you reply, voice tired but content.
The corner of his mouth twitches, an attempt at a grin, and then he crosses the room, leaning in to press a brief, tender kiss to your lips.
“I won’t be long,” he says softly.
You immediately know that this is a lie.
“Your father?”
“My father,” he confirms, already turning toward the door.
You sigh, a mixture of relief and weariness. “Give him my sympathies for never being able to rest.”
Valarr laughs quietly, the sound warm and familiar, then slips out into the corridor, leaving you alone with the promise of peace or something close to it.
_____
By the time you sink into the bath, every muscle in your body feels as though it has forgotten what comfort truly is.
The hot water works its magic almost immediately, easing the tension from your shoulders and melting away the ache deep in your bones. For the first time in days, there is no sway of the carriage beneath you, no servants bustling with trunks, no obligations tugging at your mind. Just warmth.
Silence.
Peace.
You close your eyes, letting it settle around you like a soft blanket. The nurse has taken Vaella to settle her in the nursery in the adjoining chambers, and Valarr has vanished with his father and the royal household, engrossed in matters that seem very distant from your quiet moment.
For several blissful moments, you simply sit there, soaking in the calm. Then you shift slightly, an almost subconscious movement, and immediately wince as your breasts brush against the edge of the tub.
A dull, persistent ache flares anew. Not painful, but unmistakably familiar. Your brow furrows. It’s the kind of discomfort you’ve been noticing on and off for days now.. weeks, perhaps. You rest a hand against your abdomen, feeling the faint tug of it.
The sensation fades, replaced by a quiet but growing unease. You exhale slowly, trying to dismiss it. The journey, the long hours in a carriage, the poor roads.. all plausible explanations. But behind that thought, another quietly surfaces, one you’ve been deliberately ignoring for days.
Your eyes open, slow and hesitant. Surely not. You shift again, wincing as your breasts brush against the tub’s edge once more.
And now, in this quiet moment, you realize, you’re no longer relaxing.
The water feels too warm, your pulse too quick. A sudden impulse makes you speak.
“Can someone fetch the maester for me?”
Your lady’s maid nearly drops the towel she’s folding. She looks up, concern flickering across her face.
“The maester, my lady?”
“Yes,” you say, voice steady but strained. “I would like to speak with him privately.”
Concern flashes briefly, but she bows quickly. “At once, my lady.”
___
By the time the maester arrives, you’re dressed again, seated beside the window of your chamber. Outside, Ashford Castle bustles with activity, noble visitors arriving, servants moving purposefully across the grounds. Inside, though, your mind refuses to settle.
A gentle knock sounds.
“Enter.”
The maester steps inside, an older man with kind eyes and a chain that seems almost absurdly long. He bows politely.
“My lady.”
“Thank you for coming,” you say softly.
“Your maid said you wished to see me,” he replies, stepping closer.
You nod, momentarily uncertain how to begin. The maester waits patiently, his gaze calm and attentive.
Finally, you speak. “I have not been feeling entirely myself.”
His expression sharpens with concern, professional and attentive.
“In what way?” he asks gently.
You look down at your hands, hesitating. “I’ve had occasional cramps. Aches. Low in my stomach. Only for the past two weeks. Not constantly. Only now and then.”
He nods, thoughtful.
“Anything else?”
You hesitate again, feeling foolish. Then, softly, “My breasts have been sore.”
He shows no visible reaction, only asks, “For how long?”
“About the same,” you whisper.
Another pause. “When was your last moon’s blood, my lady?”
The question lands like a stone dropped into still water, sinking deep.
“I...” Your voice falters. “I-”
The maester’s gaze is steady, patient.
You try to recall. Truly recall. And as you search your memory, unease tightens around your chest.
You do not know. Gods. You do not remember specifically.
The maester notices immediately. “You are uncertain.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. “I’ve had… a lot on my mind.”
He smiles gently, understanding. “Yes. Princess Vaella keeps you busy.”
You laugh softly, a little embarrassed.
He folds his hands. “Have you considered the possibility that you may be with child?”
The words hang heavily between you.
You stare at him, then look away, toward the window, toward nothing.
“I considered it. Briefly. And then I told myself I was being foolish… I.. my daughter is still so young, barely seven months-”
He nods, patient.
“That does not make it impossible,” he points out gently.
He asks more questions about your health, recent symptoms, changes, until he conducts the examination, professional and respectful, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable as you stare at the ceiling. When it’s over, he steps back, silence stretching between you.
You watch him gather his things, waiting, unable to breathe properly.
He glances up, then smiles.. small, knowing, reassuring.
“Well?” you whisper.
He studies you for a moment, then inclines his head. “My congratulations, my lady. You are with child.”
The words hit you like a blow. Everything inside you goes still.
You stare, not because you don’t understand, but because suddenly, everything makes sense. The constant symptoms these past weeks.
Your hand drifts unconsciously to your stomach. You barely notice.
“Are you certain?” you ask, voice trembling.
The maester’s expression softens. “As certain as I can be this early.”
You laugh, small and breathless, disbelieving. “Seven gods, save me.”
He chuckles quietly. “I suppose the prince will be pleased.”
That almost makes you laugh properly, a brief, genuine burst of amusement, as you remember his wish for another child weeks ago.
“Oh, he will,” you reply softly. “More than pleased.”
Valarr had spent months gazing at Vaella as though she hung the moon. The thought of his reaction warms your heart, almost makes you giddy.
The maester begins packing away his things. “Shall I inform Prince Valarr?”
Your head snaps up immediately. “No.”
Your voice is firm.
“Not yet.”
He offers a gentle smile. “You wish to tell him yourself.”
You nod, feeling a strange mixture of relief and anticipation. “Very much so.”
He bows once more. “Then my lips are sealed, my lady.”
Relief washes over you, warm and immediate.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
The door closes softly behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts, your secret. You sit in silence for a long moment, your hand still resting lightly on your stomach, a small smile lingering on your lips.
And despite the chaos of the past weeks, despite the burdens you carry, you find yourself imagining Valarr’s face when you finally tell him and that thought alone makes your smile grow.
_____
You had every intention of telling him.
Really.
That had been the plan, when the maester left your chambers and you sat alone with your secret, a foolish smile lingering on your lips. But then Valarr returned. Then the servants arrived. Someone needed something, then someone else. Before you knew it, the evening feast at Lord Ashford’s hall was already underway.
So for now, the secret stays with you, hidden.
Though, judging by the way Valarr keeps casting curious glances your way, it won’t be long before he suspects something. Or perhaps, he already does.
“You’re smiling again,” he says quietly, offering you his arm as you walk through the castle’s corridors, following the flow of nobles toward the great hall.
You look up, feigning innocence. “I am not.”
He sharpens his gaze, a glint of suspicion. “You are.”
“I simply had a pleasant afternoon,” you reply, voice light, trying to hide the flutter in your chest.
His eyes narrow slightly, a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. The look is playful but perceptive. You try to meet his gaze, but your nerves make you look away, the smile threatening to give you away.
“That bath was truly remarkable,” you say softly, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.
Valarr snorts, amused. “You’re blaming all this on a bath now?”
“It was a very good bath,” you reply, voice innocent.
He gives you that look that’s part amused, part knowing. “Alysanne.”
“Yes?”
“I know you,” he says simply, with a calm certainty that makes your stomach flutter.
Your heart begins to race. Not because he suspects, you tell yourself. Surely not. But because the weight of your secret feels heavier standing beside him, knowing you’re holding something that could change everything.
“I should hope so,” you whisper, voice trembling just slightly.
“You’re hiding something,” Valarr says softly, eyes fixed on you, the suspicion clear beneath his gentle tone.
And just like that, your breath catches. Gods, you should have known he’d see through you.
He notices everything. Everything.
But instead of pressing further, he offers a teasing smile. “Have you received some particularly entertaining gossip?”
You almost laugh, relieved, amused, breathless. “Yes,” you admit.
His face brightens instantly. “I knew it.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, feeling guilty despite yourself. The smile on your lips wavers, then stays. “That must be it,” you say softly, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.
He studies you a moment longer, then chuckles quietly, his hand resting lightly on your arm. “Well, then,” he says, voice warm, “we’d best keep moving. Wouldn’t want to keep everyone waiting.”
______
The corridors are crowded with lords, ladies, knights, servants, all of Ashford seemingly gathered in one place. The noise hums around you, a restless tide of voices and footsteps, as you and Valarr press onward toward the great hall. His expression gradually shifts, becoming more contemplative, and you notice it immediately.
“What is it?” you ask softly.
His gaze drifts briefly ahead, then back to you. “There has been news.”
Your heart tightens instantly. “What kind of news?”
He hesitates, then speaks, voice low. “Aegon and Daeron are missing.”
You blink, the words sinking in slowly. For a moment, you’re sure you’ve misheard. “Missing? What happened?” you manage to ask.
“No one seems entirely certain,” Valarr says, frustration creeping into his tone. “But apparently they have slipped away from their escort.”
You can’t help but think of Vaella, of what it would feel like not knowing where she was, whether she was safe, whether she was frightened. The thought makes your chest tighten painfully.
“Gods,” you whisper softly.
“Maekar must be beside himself,” Valarr says quietly.
“I imagine he is,” you reply, voice heavy.
You walk in silence for a moment, both lost in thought. Because, whatever your opinion of Prince Maekar, and you generally find him intimidating more than anything else, this feels cruel. Unfair. You shake your head, murmuring, “No wonder he always looks angry.”
The words slip out before you realize. Valarr glances at you sideways, but you press on.
“He has Aerion,” you add, voice tinged with sympathy. “That alone should earn some compassion.”
“Firstborn son is a drunkard,” Valarr says with a dry chuckle. “And now, missing along side his younger brother.”
You shake your head. “I genuinely feel sorry for him.”
Valarr’s laugh is brief but genuine. “Alysanne.”
“What?”
“You sound as though you’re preparing a defense before anyone’s accused him.”
You meet his gaze, amused. “Would you disagree?”
His mouth twitches, a faint smile. “No.”
“Thank you,” you say softly.
“Aerion alone would test the patience of a saint,” Valarr remarks, and you snort in response.
The image of Maekar trying to manage Aerion’s reckless spirit on a daily basis suddenly feels exhausting.
Valarr’s amusement lingers for a moment longer, then fades into quiet thought. “I do hope they are found soon.”
The sincerity in his voice softens your expression. “So do I.”
You squeeze Valarr’s arm gently, a silent comfort. MHe responds by placing his hand over yours briefly, simple, familiar, reassuring.
Neither of you speaks it aloud.
You’ve both buried a child before. You know how quickly fear can turn to despair, how silence can become deafening when hope flickers low. And perhaps that’s why, as the great hall finally comes into view, glittering with candlelight and alive with the hum of conversation, you find your thoughts drifting not to the missing princes, nor to the upcoming tourney, but to the secret you carry beneath your heart.
Another child. Another miracle.
The realization fills you with such overwhelming happiness that your lips curve into a smile before you even realize it. It’s a quiet, pure joy, an unspoken hope that keeps you steady.
Valarr notices immediately.
“There it is again,” he says, eyes narrowing slightly, a hint of teasing challenge in his tone.
You groan softly. “What?”
“That smile,” he says.
You quickly look away, far too conscious of the warmth creeping into your cheeks.
He steps closer, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “You’re definitely hiding something,” he says, voice low and amused.
You laugh, genuine this time, unburdened for a moment. Then, without thinking, you rise slightly onto your toes, pressing a quick, careless kiss against his cheek before he can question further.
The gesture makes him pause, momentarily stunned. Only momentarily.
When you pull back, he’s still watching you, eyes sharp, curious, unreadable.
“You’ll find out eventually,” you say softly, a teasing smile in your voice.
______
The chambers finally settled into peaceful silence after the feast. The endless greetings, conversations, and introductions had finally come to an end. Now, only the soft flicker of candlelight illuminated the room. The noise and laughter from the hall faded into the background, leaving behind a serene quiet. Vaella was asleep in the adjoining nursery, and the nurses had promised to summon you if she woke. For the first time since arriving at Ashford, nothing demanded your attention. Nothing except your husband.
Valarr was stretched beside you, one arm loosely wrapped around your waist. His face was illuminated by the gentle glow of the candles. He had shed his doublet almost immediately upon returning, declaring the feast a success simply because it had finally ended. You had laughed at him, and he had looked so pleased with himself.
Now, he traced absent-minded circles against your side, his gaze fixed on you. The quiet intimacy felt like a balm to your soul. His eyes met yours, and immediately, he narrowed them.
“There it is again,” he teased softly.
You groaned, burying your face against his shoulder. “Oh, Seven, save me.”
His smile widened. “That smile.”
“I do not have a smile,” you denied, though the warmth in your voice betrayed you.
“You absolutely have a smile,” he countered, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
His expression softened instantly, an almost reverent look, as if he couldn’t believe you were real. Gods, after all these years, his love still made your heart flutter.
“You are happy,” he observed quietly.
It was not teasing this time. Just curiosity, gentle and genuine.
You held his gaze, and in that moment, you realized you did not want to wait. Not until tomorrow, or the next day, or after the tourney. The secret felt too precious, too wondrous to keep hidden any longer.
Your hand drifted toward his, fingers intertwining. Valarr noticed immediately, and his expression shifted from curiosity to concern.
“What is it?” he asked softly.
You smiled genuine, warm, unburdened. “I saw the maester this afternoon.”
His brow furrowed. “Alysanne.”
There it was, instant worry, as familiar as the dawn.
You almost laughed at his reaction. “I am alright.”
“You saw the maester,” he repeated, voice edged with disbelief.
“I am fine,” you said again, more firmly.
But his concern lingered, unwavering. “What happened?”
You hesitated for only a moment, then gently lifted his hand and bring it to your lips before placing it against your stomach.
He looked down, then back at you.. confused, overwhelmed, a flicker of realization dawning in his eyes.
One heartbeat. Two.
Then, all at once, his eyes widened.
“Alysanne,” he whispered, voice trembling.
You nodded softly, a small smile curling your lips. The room fell utterly silent, save for the beating of your hearts.
Valarr simply stared, unspeaking and unmoving, as if trying to process the miracle before him.
And then, impossibly, you began to laugh.
“That was roughly the same reaction I had,” you said between your giggles.
He remained silent for a moment, then finally, his voice thick with wonder, asked, “You are with child?”
You nodded again, more certain than ever. “Yes.”
His face transformed into pure joy, astonishment, love flooding every feature. He laughed breathlessly and pulled you close, clutching you as if he feared you might disappear.
“Alysanne,” he whispered reverently, voice trembling with awe. “You’re with child.”
“Apparently,” you replied, smiling through tears of happiness.
He pressed his forehead to yours, still laughing softly. “You’re with child,” he repeated, as if the words were sacred. “Gods. We are to have another.”
Your own smile widened. “That’s how these things tend to work,” you teased gently.
He ignored the tease, far too caught up in the wonder. His hand remained on your stomach, as if already feeling for the life within.
“When did you find out?” he finally managed.
“This afternoon,” you replied softly.
“And you waited until now?”
You shrugged, trying to hide the thrill in your voice. “I wanted to wait for the perfect moment.”
His smile grew impossibly wider, impossibly brighter. And then his face shifted again, concern flickering across his features.
“Are you well?” he asked immediately.
You smiled softly, reaching up to touch his face. “I am fine.”
He studied you, worry etched deeply into his expression. “Any cramps?”
“Some,” you admitted, brushing it off lightly.
He exhaled, relief mixed with lingering concern. “You shouldn’t have traveled. The road-”
“Valarr,” you interrupted gently, “nothing happened. The maester checked on us every couple hours.”
His grip tightened slightly. “It was not every couple hours.”
“It was every other hour,” you insisted, teasing.
He looked guilty, caught almost. You laughed again, the sound light and carefree.
Gods, you loved him. His hand returned to your stomach, lingering there almost shyly. Then he leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss through the fabric of your nightgown. One. Then another.
His fingers ran through your hair as he looked at you, eyes shining with wonder.
“We’re having another baby,” he whispered, voice thick with disbelief and joy.
“Yes,” you replied softly. He pulled you closer, one arm wrapped around your waist, his hand still resting protectively on your stomach. The warmth of his love surrounded you both, filling the quiet chamber with the promise of new life, new hope.
_____
The lists are louder than you remembered. Or perhaps it only feels that way because Vaella is not with you. For the first time in months, she is not sitting in your lap, tugging on your sleeves, demanding your attention, or attempting to place something entirely unsuitable into her mouth. Instead, she remains back at Ashford Castle with her nurses, leaving you free to sit amongst the royal party and actually watch the tournament.
Not that you are particularly interested in the tournament. At least, not until Valarr rides.
The rest is simply waiting. The afternoon sun shines brightly overhead while knights thunder across the lists one after another. Lances splinter beneath cheering crowds as banners snap in the breeze. You applaud politely when appropriate. Smile when required. And mostly find yourself watching the royal pavilion instead.
Prince Baelor sits beside you, appearing considerably more relaxed than he had at the feast the night before. Perhaps it is because he enjoys tourneys. Or perhaps it is because Valarr has already shared your news. The moment your husband had informed him that morning, Baelor had looked so delighted that you had briefly feared he might embrace both of you at once.
Now, as another pair of knights charge one another below, he shakes his head and laughs softly.
“I still cannot quite believe it,” he says.
You glance toward him. “The baby?”
“The baby,” he confirms, and the smile returns immediately, warm, genuine, entirely grandfatherly. The amusement lingers for several moments before his expression softens. “You know,” he says quietly, “I am very happy for the both of you.”
Your smile becomes gentler. “Thank you.”
He nods, watching the lists below for a moment before continuing.
“I worried about him,” Baelor admits softly.
The words surprise you.
You glance toward him. “Valarr? I find that difficult to believe.”
“You should not,” he replies immediately, gaze fixed on the tournament grounds, thoughtful, distant.
“When he was younger,” he continues, “I worried constantly.”
A smile touches his lips. “He was so stubborn.”
“Still is,” you reply with a smile.
That finally earns a laugh from him.
“A fair point,” he concedes.
For a moment, silence settles comfortably between you. Then Baelor sighs.
“But he was always good,” he says softly, proudly. “There was never any cruelty in him.”
Your eyes drift toward the lists, toward the field where Valarr will soon ride. You know exactly what he means.
“He cared too much,” Baelor says quietly. “Felt everything too deeply. And I worried the world would punish him for it.”
Your chest tightens unexpectedly, because you know that boy. You married that boy. You watched him become a man.
Baelor’s smile is faint. “Instead, he found you.”
The simple statement catches you entirely off guard. You look away immediately, embarrassed and slightly touched.
“I am not certain that solved all his problems,” you reply softly.
“It solved many of them,” Baelor affirms with complete certainty.
When you glance back, his expression is warm, affectionate, almost fond.
“As a father,” he says quietly, “there are few things more gratifying than seeing your child truly happy.”
The words settle quietly inside your chest. “And he is,” you say without hesitation.
There is no uncertainty. Only conviction.
“He is an even better husband than I ever thought he would be,” Baelor continues.
A pause. “An even better father than I imagined.”
Your throat tightens because those things are true, entirely true.
Baelor shakes his head with a small laugh. “The way he looks at that little girl.”
You immediately smile. “Vaella knows exactly what she is doing.”
“Gods, she does,” Baelor agrees, and the two of you laugh together.
“She has him completely conquered,” you say.
“Utterly,” Baelor replies.
“One smile,” you add.
“He would surrender the Iron Throne,” Baelor jokes with a grin.
You laugh harder, knowing he’s probably right. Baelor’s expression softens once more.
“You have made him very happy, Alysanne,” he says softly, almost reverently.
The sincerity in his voice almost hurts. “You gave him a family.”
A pause. “The sort of family every man hopes to build.”
Your eyes sting unexpectedly, just a little. You blink quickly, looking out toward the tournament grounds.
“You sound very sentimental today,” you remark.
“I am becoming old,” Baelor replies immediately.
You snort. “You are not old.”
“I have grandchildren.”
“You have one grandchild,” you correct.
“Nearly two,” Baelor insists smugly.
You laugh despite yourself. Baelor gestures dramatically toward the lists.
“If the two of you continue at this pace, I shall be surrounded,” he declares.
You raise an eyebrow. “Surrounded?”
“Completely overwhelmed,” he says with a grin. “Every corridor occupied. Every solar invaded. Every meal interrupted.”
You laugh. “That sounds dreadful.”
“It sounds wonderful,” Baelor replies so quickly you immediately soften, because he means it. Entirely.
He looks out toward the crowds. “I find that I am increasingly content with the idea of growing old whilst being climbed upon by grandchildren.”
You burst into laughter. He looks pleased with himself.
“As opposed to dealing with politics,” you say.
“Precisely,” Baelor agrees and you laugh even harder.
The conversation drifts after that.. comfortable, easy, one of those rare moments that seem entirely ordinary while they are happening. The sort one rarely appreciates enough.
Then, suddenly, movement below catches your eye, a stir among the knights preparing near the lists. You sit up slightly, immediately recognizing the familiar silver-gold hair. Your heart skips.
“There he is,” you whisper.
Baelor follows your gaze and smiles, proud, so impossibly proud.
“There he is,” he echoes.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. You simply watch him. Your husband. The father of your daughter. The father of the child already growing inside you. The man Baelor has spent the last quarter hour describing with such unmistakable love.
And suddenly, your chest feels almost too full, full of happiness, gratitude, and affection.
Valarr settles his helm, adjusts his lance, and turns his horse toward the lists. Then, sensing your gaze, he looks up toward the royal pavilion, finding you immediately. Of course he does.
A smile appears, small, quick, only for you. Your heart melts completely.
The herald calls his name, the crowd cheers, and the horses charge. You barely breathe. Even after all these years, tournaments still make you nervous. Yet, today feels different. Today, there is only warmth, only joy, only the certainty that Baelor is right.
Valarr is good. He is kind. He is brave. He is a wonderful husband, a wonderful father. And you love him.
The realization settles inside you just as the lances collide, a crack echoing across the field. The opposing knight wobbles violently and crashes into the dirt. The crowd erupts. For one stunned heartbeat, you simply stare. Then, without meaning to, you are on your feet, applauding, laughing, cheering. Actually cheering.
Beside you, Baelor looks so surprised that you almost laugh harder.
“Alysanne,” he says.
You do not care. Valarr has won, and perhaps for the first time in your life, you are far too happy to remember that ladies are supposed to behave with dignity.
Far below, Valarr glances toward the pavilion again, sees you standing, sees you applauding, and begins laughing beneath his helm. The sight makes your smile grow impossibly wider, while beside you, Prince Baelor simply shakes his head, looking between the two of you with unmistakable affection.
_____
Vaella is attempting to eat your fingers again. You are beginning to suspect that your daughter believes the entire world exists solely to be placed into her mouth. At this moment, she is sitting on a blanket spread across the floor of your chambers, clutching one of your hands with fierce determination. You try unsuccessfully to redirect her attention toward an actual toy.
“That is not food,” you tell her. Vaella disagrees strongly. You let out a sigh.
The door opens. You glance up immediately. Valarr pauses halfway through entering.
“I wasn’t aware I was expected,” he says with a teasing smile. You reply, “You are always expected,” and his smile appears at once, an infuriating man. He crosses the room and immediately crouches beside Vaella, who abandons your fingers without hesitation the moment she spots him. Traitor. Complete traitor.
“Hello there,” Valarr greets softly. Vaella squeals, delighted. You watch them fondly for a moment before recalling your actual question.
“What’s a Trial of Seven?” you ask. Valarr blinks.
“A Trial of Seven?” he repeats. “Yes.” You shift slightly on the floor. “I heard servants talking about it.” His expression immediately changes. The amusement fades.
“Oh,” he says.
You sit up straighter. “So there is one.”
“There will be,” Valarr confirms with a sigh. You frown. “Why?” you ask.
He exhales heavily, clearly already annoyed by the situation. “Because Aerion has managed to create problems again.”
“That narrows it down considerably,” you remark. His mouth twitches despite himself.
“A hedge knight struck him,” he explains. You blink. “A hedge knight struck Aerion?” you ask.
“Yes,” he confirms. You stare. Then, “Good for him,” you say with a grin. Valarr laughs, a proper laugh. You feel no guilt whatsoever.
“I thought you might say that,” he admits. “What did Aerion do?” Because there is absolutely no chance Aerion was behaving himself. Valarr looks entirely unconvinced by the idea as well.
“There was a dispute,” he says.
“A dispute,” you say skeptically. “Aerion being Aerion.”
“There it is,” Valarr agrees. You do not need further explanation, unfortunately.
“What happens now?” you inquire. Valarr replies, “The hedge knight demanded a trial.” You nod slowly. Valarr continues, “And Aerion demanded a Trial of Seven.” You frown.
“And that means?” you ask. Valarr reaches for Vaella as she begins attempting to crawl beneath a chair. “The accused chooses six champions,” he explains, lifting her effortlessly. “And the accuser chooses six of his own.”
You stare. “Twelve men?” you ask.
“Fourteen,” he corrects. You blink. “Fourteen.”
“Seven against seven,” he clarifies.
“That seems excessive to settle such simple matter” you say, raising an eyebrow. “It is ancient,” Valarr admits. “And dangerous,” he adds. You make a face, thinking the entire thing sounds absurd.
“Why would Aerion demand this?” you ask. Valarr lets out a short laugh.
“Because he would rather hide behind seven swords than answer for himself,” he says bluntly. You watch him carefully, the irritation in his voice unmistakable.
“That sounds cowardly,” you comment.
“It is cowardly,” Valarr agrees. He shifts Vaella slightly higher against his shoulder. “He could face the hedge knight himself.” There is a pause. “He chooses not to.” You nod slowly. That sounds very much like Aerion.
For a moment, silence settles between you. Then a sudden thought makes your stomach tighten.
“Valarr,” you say softly. He looks up immediately. “Yes?”
“You aren’t participating,” you say.
He responds so quickly you almost laugh. “No.” Relief floods through you, immediate, powerful. “Good.”
Valarr smiles faintly. “I would not fight for Aerion.”
“Good”
____
Something stirs within you, though at first, you are not quite sure what it is. The darkness of the chamber remains unbroken, the only light coming in as a faint, silvery grey seepage through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room. Beyond the thick stone walls of Ashford Castle, the world outside is only just beginning to wake, the distant sounds of dawn barely audible in the stillness.
For a long moment, you remain caught in the liminal space between sleep and waking, warm beneath the blankets, your body heavy with exhaustion. Then, instinctively, you reach across the bed, expecting to find your husband beside you and for a heartbeat, you do. But when your hand extends, it finds nothing but emptiness.
Your eyes snap open, heart quickening as a sudden coldness spreads through you. The space where Valarr should be is unoccupied, the bed noticeably cooler on that side. You sit up with a jolt, your breath catching in your throat. “Valarr?” you call softly, but only silence responds. The chamber remains silent, eerily so, as if the very air is holding its breath.
Your gaze darts toward the adjoining nursery, where Vaella sleeps peacefully, undisturbed. Everything looks as it should, nothing out of place, no signs of disturbance. Yet, the absence of your husband feels like a chasm opening in your chest, a void that suddenly seems impossibly vast.
With a shiver, you throw back the blankets, your feet touching the cold stone floor. Just as your toes meet the cold surface, the door to your chamber swings open quietly. Relief washes over you, so sudden and overwhelming that it nearly makes your head spin.
Valarr steps inside, still dressed in the clothes he wore to bed, his hair slightly tousled from sleep, his expression calm and unconcerned. There is nothing in his stance that suggests anything is wrong, no hurried movements, no signs of worry.
You stare at him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. He blinks, almost as if surprised by your gaze, and then, realization dawns on his face. “Alysanne?” he says softly, as if waking from a dream.
“Where were you?”
The question slips from your lips sharper than you intended, sharp enough to cut through the quiet air. Valarr pauses only briefly, then moves toward you with a gentle, deliberate step. His voice is soft but steady. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs, as if that explains everything.
That is not an answer, and you know it. You cross your arms, watching him carefully, your mind racing for clues. “Where were you?” you repeat, more insistently this time.
His face softens, the familiar warmth of his expression designed to soothe, to disarm. You hate that look because it always means he’s hiding something. His gaze meets yours, steady and unflinching. “My father wanted to speak with me,” he says simply, as if that explains everything.
And perhaps it does, at least, on the surface.
You narrow your eyes, frowning. “At dawn?” you ask, voice edged with suspicion.
A faint, almost innocent smile touches his lips. “You make it sound very unreasonable,” he replies, his tone light, almost mocking.
“It’s unreasonable,” you insist, frustration prickling at your voice.
Valarr laughs softly, a quiet sound that somehow eases the tension in your chest, just a little. “He needed something,” he says, as if that’s all there is to it.
“What?” The word escapes before you can stop it, automatic and sharp.
For a moment, something flickers across his face, an emotion you can’t quite read, gone so quickly that you wonder if you imagined it. Then he says, “Nothing important,” with a matter-of-fact tone that makes your stomach tighten.
You stare, searching his face for any sign of deception, but he looks completely innocent, too innocent. You know he’s hiding something, and that knowledge fuels your irritation. You’re about to press further when he steps closer, closing the distance between you with a deliberate, soothing movement. His hands rest lightly on your waist, warm and familiar, grounding you even as your mind races.
“Everything is fine,” he says softly, with quiet assurance. His tone is steady, unwavering.
You study him, eyes narrowing as you try to find any trace of worry or concern, anything that might betray the truth. But he remains calm and completely unruffled, as if the world outside and within the castle are of no consequence.
Finally, you exhale a slow breath, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. “Fine,” you say, voice resigned.
His smile blooms, victorious and a little smug, and you resist the urge to push him away, just barely.
Outside, the first light of dawn begins to paint the sky with soft hues of pink and gold, but inside the chamber, the silence persists, thick and heavy, wrapped around you like a shroud.
Valarr gently brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch tender. “You should go back to sleep,” he whispers, voice soothing.
You scoff softly. “You vanished before sunrise,” you remind him, voice tinged with frustration.
He offers a small, knowing grin. “And now I’ve returned,” he replies, as if that explains everything.
“Doesn’t make it better,” you mutter.
“It helps,” he insists softly, and somehow, despite yourself, it does.. just a little.
His hands slide down to your back, pulling you gently closer. You lean into him without thinking, traitorous and helpless to resist the comfort he offers.
“Everything’s alright,” he murmurs again, voice low and reassuring.
And perhaps, because you are still half asleep or because your trust in him runs deep, you finally allow yourself to relax, sinking into his embrace.
“You’re sure?” you ask softly, searching his eyes.
“I am,” he replies instantly, with unwavering certainty.
Your forehead presses against his shoulder, exhaustion creeping back over you. “Good,” you whisper.
Valarr presses a gentle kiss into your hair, then another. “Come back to bed.”
And you let him guide you beneath the blankets once more, feeling the warm shift of the mattress as he settles beside you, his arm wrapping around your waist.
_____
Something is terribly wrong.
You realize it the moment you step out of the breakfast hall.
At first, you cannot quite explain why. Nothing obvious has happened. No announcement has been made, no bells tolling through the castle, no servants weeping in the corridors. And yet an unshakable sense of dread clings to your skin, prickling beneath your fingertips and settling deep in your bones.
The feeling follows you as you walk through Ashford Castle, a strange tension hanging in the air like a heavy curtain drawn across the halls. People move with hurried purpose, their voices hushed to whispers, eyes darting nervously from side to side. Twice, you notice servants rushing past with pale faces and hurried steps, their expressions oddly blank, as if they are trying to hide something.
A group of knights stands gathered near a staircase, speaking in hushed, clipped tones, their heads bowed low as soon as someone approaches, silence falling over them like a shroud. Your brow furrows, and the unease deepens, crawling under your skin like icy fingers.
You pause near a window, your eyes narrowing as you watch and listen, desperate to understand what is wrong. Every instinct screams that this is not normal, nothing about this feels right. A chill runs down your spine, and you clutch your skirts tightly, fighting the urge to turn back, to run and find safety elsewhere.
Your gaze drifts to your lady’s maid, standing just behind you. Her face is pale, her eyes wary. You gently ask, “Have you noticed anything unusual?”
The young woman hesitates, then nods reluctantly, her lips trembling slightly. That small acknowledgment is almost worse than silence. It confirms that your instincts are correct, but it offers no explanation, no clarity.
“What happened?” you press, voice trembling with a mixture of fear and impatience.
She looks down at her hands, hesitating before whispering, “I don’t know, my lady.”
And for once, you believe her. Her voice rings with genuine uncertainty, and that only intensifies your unease.
You continue walking, trying to convince yourself that you are imagining things, that your fears are unfounded. But no matter how hard you try, the sensation persists, growing stronger with every step.
Then, out of the shadows, you spot the maester, an older man with greying hair, the same one who confirmed your pregnancy only days prior. He crosses the corridor hurriedly, clutching several rolls of bandages beneath one arm, his face tight with concern.
Without thinking, you step into his path. “Maester,” you call, voice sharp with urgency.
He stops abruptly, and the moment his eyes meet yours, something shifts in his expression. A flicker of hesitation, or perhaps dread, crosses his face. Your stomach drops.
“Maester,” you repeat, voice firmer now. “What happened?”
He says nothing at first. Only looks at you, his eyes dark with sorrow, and that silence is somehow worse than any words could be.
“Maester,” you insist, voice rising slightly. “What happened?”
The old man’s face pales. For a moment, he seems torn, caught between duty and dread. Then, softly, almost as if to comfort himself, he speaks. “My lady… perhaps I am not the one who should tell you.”
Your pulse begins to race. Your breath catches. “Tell me what?” you demand, voice trembling.
He looks down, and in that silence, the words are delivered, slowly and painfully. “Prince Baelor has died.”
Time seems to shatter. The words hang in the air like shards of glass, sharp and unforgiving. Everything around you, the corridor, the castle, the very world, seems to pause, waiting for your mind to catch up.
You stare at him, uncomprehending, your thoughts a whirl of confusion and disbelief.
“What?” The word escapes your lips, trembling, distant, almost as if someone else is speaking.
The maester lowers his eyes and whispers, “Prince Baelor succumbed to his injuries.”
Your mind reels. You blink once, then twice, desperately trying to grasp what you have heard. But the words refuse to settle, to make sense.
“What injuries?” you manage to ask, voice faint and strained, barely yours.
The maester’s expression turns even sadder. “The Trial of Seven.”
No. No, that cannot be. That cannot be true.
You saw him yesterday. You spoke to him yesterday. He was laughing, smiling, talking about grandchildren, talking about Valarr.
It cannot be. It must not be.
“You’re mistaken,” you say immediately, voice certain, almost pleading. “He was perfectly fine yesterday. I saw him myself.”
But the old man’s face remains grim, and that silence, heavy and oppressive, tells you everything.
Your stomach twists violently, a sickening churn of dread. For a moment, you think you might be sick.
Baelor. Dead.
The words refuse to settle into your mind, refusing to become real.
Your hand instinctively moves to your stomach, a protective gesture as if trying to hold something fragile inside you.
And then, with brutal clarity, a new thought strikes you, hard enough to steal your breath. Valarr.
Your eyes dart upward, seeking him among the shadows and faces around you.
“Has my husband been informed?” you ask, voice trembling with urgency.
The maester nods slowly. “From what I have heard, yes.”
The impact hits you like a blow, immediate and crushing. Without hesitation, you’re already moving, already turning away from the maester.
He speaks again, but the words are drowned out by your pounding heartbeat. You barely hear him.
Valarr. You need to find him. Now.
_____
Their chambers are utterly empty.
The sight strikes a fresh wave of panic through you, sharp and relentless.
“Valarr?” you call out, voice trembling with desperation, but only silence answers you.
The bed remains untouched, a vacant and cold expanse. The sitting room, normally filled with the scent of incense and the quiet hum of conversation, lies abandoned, silent as a tomb. There is no sign of him anywhere.
Your eyes dart across the room, searching, hoping for a flicker of movement, a shadow, any clue that might tell you where he has gone.
You turn toward a nearby servant, voice trembling. “Have you seen my husband?”
The girl shakes her head quickly, her face pale and anxious. “No, my lady.”
Another servant, then a second, both equally clueless, their expressions nervous and uncertain.
A knight, passing by, pauses briefly, but his own expression reveals nothing.
A steward, hurrying past, offers the same blank stare, no answers, no clues.
Nobody knows. Or if they do, nobody is willing to tell you.
Your heart pounds harder with every passing second because you know him.
Valarr does not grieve openly.
Not like this, not when the wound is still fresh and bleeding so painfully.
He would never break apart before a crowd, never in front of courtiers or strangers, never in the open.
If he is truly grieving then he must be alone.
Somewhere quiet.
Somewhere hidden.
Somewhere safe.
Your breath catches as you stop abruptly in the middle of a corridor, your chest rising and falling rapidly.
You are thinking, desperately trying to piece together where he might have gone because there are only so many places. Only so many that he would choose in a moment like this.
Your eyes close briefly, and in that instant, an answer springs to your mind with startling clarity.
The library.
If Valarr wishes to disappear, if he seeks solace in solitude, then that is where he would go.
You open your eyes, your heart pounding anew, and turn immediately, your steps swift and purposeful.
A passing servant starts when you suddenly halt him.
“Is there a library?” you ask, voice urgent.
He blinks, taken aback, then nods quickly. “Second floor, my lady.”
You are already moving before he finishes speaking, your mind racing even faster than your feet.
Your heart is still pounding, your thoughts swirling, an unbearable mixture of fear and hope.
The words the maester spoke echo in your mind. Prince Baelor has died.
The sentence feels unreal, a cruel twist of fate. It’s impossible to believe. Unthinkable.
Like a story someone else is telling, a nightmare you cannot wake from.
But one thing remains certain, one truth cuts through the fog of grief and confusion.
Valarr is alone.
And whatever grief has overtaken him, whatever pain now consumes his heart, you know exactly where to find him.
______
The library was silent, not peaceful, not comforting, just silent. It was the kind of silence that followed tragedy, when the world continued to turn as if nothing had changed, even though everything had. Dust motes drifted lazily through the shafts of sunlight spilling from the tall windows, and beyond these walls, Ashford carried on as it always had. Servants moved through the corridors, horses stamped in the stables, courtiers whispered in hushed voices.
And Prince Baelor Targaryen was dead.
The words still felt impossible, like a cruel joke played on your senses. It was unfathomable. Yesterday, he had been alive, smiling beside you in the royal pavilion, speaking softly about grandchildren, about growing old, about how proud he was of his son. Yesterday, he had still been here.
Today he was gone.
Your throat tightened painfully as though someone was squeezing your voice from within. You found Valarr sitting alone in the far corner of the library, folded in on himself in a way you’d never seen before. For a long moment, you simply stood there, watching him, your heart breaking with each passing second.
This was not the man you knew. Not entirely.
The Valarr you knew filled rooms with laughter, carried responsibility as naturally as breathing, and when others fell apart, they came to him. He bore grief silently, privately because that was what he was used to. But the man sitting before you now looked smaller, as if the loss had carved something out of him. He looked utterly alone, as if the world had quietly abandoned him in this quiet, sacred space.
Slowly, you stepped toward him. The floorboards creaked softly beneath your feet, but he didn’t react. Not until your hand gently settled on his shoulder. Then he froze. His entire body stiffened beneath your touch, rigid as stone. And when he finally lifted his head- Gods.
You nearly started crying right then. His eyes were bloodshot, face pale, streaked with tears that betrayed him more than words ever could. The sight was so devastating that for a moment, you struggled to breathe. Valarr cried rarely, not because he lacked feeling, no, he felt everything. He simply carried it quietly, privately. But this grief was too large for him to contain.
You lowered yourself to the floor beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his knee. Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched out, heavy and painful, until finally..
He whispered, brokenly, “He asked for my armor.”
Your eyes closed, because you knew what that meant. Of course. The missing piece fell into place immediately. The early morning absence, the strange conversation, the look on his face when he returned.
“He woke me before dawn,” Valarr continued, his voice distant, as if speaking from far away. “I thought he was mad. He wasn’t even dressed properly. He said he needed my armor.”
You listened, saying nothing, knowing he needed this, needed to speak, needed to relive it, despite every word piercing him anew.
“He told me one of Dunk’s champions had withdrawn,” he said softly. “He said he was riding.”
His hands clenched tightly, knuckles turning white.
“I asked him if he was certain,” he added, voice cracking. “I told him he didn’t need to do it but he told me the Kingsguard couldn’t seriously harm him anyway.”
The words seemed to physically hurt him because now he knew. Now he understood how wrong he’d been. Tears burned behind your eyes.
“He laughed,” he said quietly, almost bitterly. The memory devastated him. You could hear it, see it, Baelor’s laugh ringing in your mind, so full of pride and affection.
“He told me not to worry,” Valarr whispered. His shoulders trembled slightly, enough to break your heart.
“He told me to go back to sleep. To my wife. To my daughter,” he finished, voice shattering with grief.
The words hung heavy in the air between you, raw and devastating.
And suddenly, you saw it, Baelor standing in the doorway, watching his son with a mixture of pride and love, knowing exactly who he was and what he would do, and choosing to do it anyway.
Your chest ached, actually ached, as if grief itself had taken physical form.
Valarr’s voice was barely a whisper. “He knew.” He sounded broken, defeated.
“He knew I would’ve argued further. Tried to stop him. Ridden after him if he let me.”
A tear slipped down his cheek, then another. His voice broke apart completely.
“To my shame, I went back to bed.”
Gods, the guilt was unbearable.
“I just went back to bed,” he repeated quietly, tears spilling freely down your own cheeks now, hot and unstoppable because grief was a cruel, twisting thing. It turned every memory into a weapon, every kindness, every moment, every word, sharpened and turned against itself.
You moved closer, taking his face between your hands, gently forcing him to look at you. His eyes were shattered, broken beyond repair.
“You listen to me,” you said, voice trembling, unsteady. “He loved you.”
The words burst forth fiercely, urgently, because they were true, because they mattered, because he needed to hear them.
“He loved you so much.”
Valarr’s face crumpled, tears streaming anew. You could feel tears running down your own cheeks, hot and relentless.
And suddenly, you remembered yesterday, the tournament, the sunshine, Baelor beside you, smiling, talking, proud.
Gods, so proud.
“He spoke to me yesterday,” you whispered.
Valarr blinked, confused, lost.
You swallowed hard, fighting to steady yourself. “He spent half the afternoon talking about you,” you said softly.
His brow furrowed. You laughed through your tears, pathetic and broken.
“He was so proud of you,” you managed.
“The man you’ve become.”
He stared at you silently, listening, clinging to every word. “He was proud of you,” you repeated fiercely. “And he loved you.”
Crying openly now, you shook your head. “He loved you so much.”
Neither of you spoke for a long moment, the silence overwhelming and then, finally, Valarr broke fully.
He opened his arms, almost imploring you, and you moved instantly, wrapping your arms around him.
His face pressed against your shoulder, and he cried, deep, primal tears that came from somewhere ancient and raw.
You held him, tears spilling freely down your cheeks, too, because grief was a terrible, shared thing. The unfairness of it crushed you, and you clung to each other amid the quiet shadows of the library, neither of you trying to hide the tears, neither pretending to be brave.
For now, only grief. Only love. Only the terrible ache left behind by a man who mattered so deeply.
And though neither of you could lessen the other's pain, you bore it together as family.
____
The funeral took place at sunset, as the sky above Ashford burned with shades of gold and crimson. The last light of day reflected across polished armor and silver hair, casting a faint glow over the gathered nobles who stood in solemn silence around the great funeral pyre.
You stood beside Valarr, but not quite beside him. A step behind, close enough to reach out, close enough to feel the tension radiating from him. Close enough to sense that he was barely holding himself together.
The wind lifted the edges of your mourning cloak as the prayers began, soft invocations, blessings spoken over Prince Baelor’s body. You heard them, in the distant corner of your mind, their words blending into a muted hum that felt removed from everything since this morning. The prayers, the blessings, the voice of the priest, everything sounded faint, as if you were listening from underwater.
Your eyes remained fixed on the pyre. On the prince who had welcomed you into his family, who had treated you with kindness, who had held Vaella with such obvious delight. Who had spoken to you only yesterday, about his hopes, his pride, his love.
Your throat tightened painfully, a ache that refused to loosen.
Beside you, Valarr stood perfectly still, too still. His posture was upright, his face composed, his gaze fixed straight ahead. To anyone who did not know him, he might appear calm, stoic, unmoved. But you knew better.
You knew every line of his face, every subtle shift in his expression, every way he hid his true feelings when he thought no one was watching. You knew how much effort it took for him to keep this facade intact, how his body betrayed him with the slightest tremor, the faintest tightening of his jaw. The realization was a knife in your chest, and it hurt more than you could say.
Slowly, almost instinctively, you reached for his hand. Your fingers brushed against his. For a moment, he allowed it, just briefly. You felt the warmth of his skin, the faint tremor he was desperately trying to conceal.
And then, gently, almost apologetically, he pulled away. Not harshly, not unkindly, just enough to create space between you. Just enough to remind you that he fought his grief alone.
Your hand fell back to your side. The rejection stung, not because he meant to hurt you, no, you understood that. You knew he carried his pain inwardly, always had.
The prayers ended. Silence followed so heavy, sacred and absolute. Then the torch was brought forward, a terrible moment, as nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
The flames touched dry wood, and smoke began to rise. The pyre slowly caught, crackling softly as the fire grew taller, brighter, consuming everything. The first crack echoed through the evening air, a sharp reminder of what was happening.
Your own eyes burned, tears threatening to spill over. The fire spread, climbing higher, engulfing the pyre until it became a tower of flames against the darkening sky, a fierce, beautiful, unbearable sight.
Beside you, Valarr did not move. Not once. Not even as the flames reached their height, not even when the heat became almost uncomfortable. His gaze never left the pyre and suddenly, you understood.
He was saying goodbye. That thought shattered something inside you. Tears slipped free, then another. You hastily wiped them away, trying to steady yourself.
The fire continued to burn, the sky darkening around it. People began to drift away, one by one, families gathering, lords escorting their wives, knights returning to the castle. The ceremony was over, and yet Valarr remained standing there, watching the flames consume the last of his father’s earthly presence.
You hesitated, then gently touched his arm. “Valarr.”
His eyes closed briefly. Only briefly. When they opened again, they remained fixed on the dying flames, on the flickering embers that carried the memory of a man he loved.
“I need a moment,” he said softly, roughly.
His voice was strained, as if speaking itself demanded effort.
Your heart clenched because you had known. Even before he said it, you had known what he needed. Still, hearing it hurt. Because a part of you desperately wanted to stay, to hold him, to help carry some of this grief. But love, you knew, wasn’t about selfishness.
So you nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at you, even though he didn’t see.
“I know,” you whispered.
For a moment, you thought he might say something else, reach for your hand, turn toward you, seek comfort. But he didn’t. His gaze remained fixed on the fire, on his father, on the final remnants of a life he wasn’t ready to let go of.
You swallowed hard, then stepped back, giving him what he needed. Even when every instinct urged you to stay, to hold him, to refuse the pain of letting go.
Because sometimes, love meant following them into grief, and sometimes, it meant letting them be alone.
Turning away, you began to walk back toward Ashford Castle. The path felt longer than before, the evening colder, the shadows deeper. Behind you, the voices faded, footsteps disappeared into the dusk.
And still, one figure remained, standing before the dying flames, alone with his grief, alone with his memories, alone with the man who had shaped him into who he was.
And some goodbyes are too personal to share, even with the people who love us most.
____
Weeks later
The Red Keep felt different now, somehow changed by the weight of absence and memory. You couldn’t quite decide whether it was because Prince Baelor was gone or because those who remained were no longer the same. Perhaps it was both.
Weeks had passed since Ashford, yet the feeling of grief still lingered in every corner of the castle. It was an invisible shadow that cast itself over every moment, every routine. The court continued its daily functions. meetings, petitions, feasts, but beneath the surface, the ache remained. It lingered in quiet corners, in empty chairs, in the names that no one dared speak aloud as often anymore.
And nowhere was this more painfully visible than in your husband. Valarr had not fallen apart. Truly, you almost wished he had, because then maybe you could have held him, comforted him. But instead, he had carried it all so quietly, silently, alone.
At first, he had scarcely left your side or Vaella’s. For days after returning to King’s Landing, he seemed unable to put her down. You often found him sitting beside her cradle long after she had fallen asleep, watching her with a tenderness that broke your heart. Sometimes, he would lift her into his arms for no reason at all, hold her close, kiss the top of her tiny head, then close his eyes as if reassuring himself that she was still there.. still breathing, still safe.
You never commented on it, never told him you noticed. Because you understood. After losing Baelor so suddenly, so violently, some frightened part of him was desperate to cling to what was left. To hold onto his daughter, his family, his future.
When he was not with Vaella, he was often with Matarys. The two young men spent hours wandering the gardens, training, talking, sometimes not talking at all, because grief did not always need words. Sometimes, it only needed company. Only someone who understood.
And you understood that too.
Yet despite all of it, despite the tenderness, the love, the way he still reached for your hand in his sleep, you saw the subtle, persistent distance. A shadow that remained, as though part of him was still standing beside that funeral pyre, whispering farewell.
This evening, you found him in your sitting room after supper. The fire burned quietly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the chamber. The nursery door was slightly ajar, so you could hear Vaella babbling to her nurse as she prepared for bed. The sound made you smile automatically, but Valarr did not.
Not because he was unhappy, only because he seemed far away. His gaze was fixed upon a letter in his hand, and he looked lost in thought.
You settled into the chair opposite him silently, watching him.
“What is it?” you asked softly.
His eyes lifted, surprised to find you there, then blinked, as if returning to himself.
“My grandfather,” he replied quietly.
You immediately understood. King Daeron.
“What does he want?”
A faint, humorless smile touched his lips.
“The realm to see me,” he said softly.
Your brow furrowed.
“What does that mean?”
He lowered the letter and looked away.
“The king wants us to undertake a summer progress,” he said flatly.
You stared, your mind racing.
“A progress?”
He nodded.
“Through the Crownlands. Parts of the Reach. Perhaps the Riverlands.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
“That’s a lot of traveling,” you said cautiously.
“It is,” he responded, almost absentmindedly.
You studied him carefully, the way he spoke about it, the way his gaze lingered on the fire rather than on you, the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. Something twisted inside your chest.
“What does he actually want?” you asked gently.
Valarr let out a soft, humorless laugh.
“He wants the realm to see that the succession remains secure,” he said quietly, as if those words had already been explained to him many times.
“He wants them to see an heir,” he continued.
His gaze dropped briefly.
“A young heir. A healthy heir. An heir with a wife,” he added softly.
Your stomach clenched.
“A daughter,” you said quietly.
His eyes flickered toward the nursery.
“And another child on the way,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
Silence settled between you, heavy and full of understanding. You knew what he meant.. The crown needed reassurance. After Baelor’s death, after the chaos and uncertainty, the kingdom demanded proof of continuity, stability and hope.
But when you looked at Valarr, all you saw was exhaustion.
“You don’t want to do it,” you said without question.
His shoulders sagged slightly, and he responded with a quiet, almost defeated nod.
“No,” he admitted.
The honesty surprised you. Because lately, he had been hiding so much, swallowing so much. Yet, this answer was immediate.
“No,” he repeated softly. “I don’t.”
The fire crackled softly, somewhere in the nursery, Vaella’s laughter floated through the air, and your heart clenched painfully at the sound. For a moment, you saw the expression on his face, so young, so vulnerable, and you realized he looked far younger than the heir he was meant to be, far younger than a man carrying the weight of a kingdom.
You leaned forward slightly.
“You don’t have to perform for me,” you said gently.
His eyes lifted, confused.
“Alysanne-”
“You don’t,” you interrupted softly. “You don’t have to pretend you’re alright.”
A flicker crossed his face, gone almost immediately. But you saw it, the fleeting shadow of pain. Because you knew him. You always had.
For several moments, he said nothing, just stared into the fire. Then finally..
“I’m tired,” he whispered, almost as if the words cost him something.
Your chest ached. Gods, you couldn’t remember the last time he admitted weakness aloud.
Valarr exhaled slowly. “I’m tired of everyone looking at me,” he said quietly. He paused, then added, “Waiting.” His jaw tightened. “As though I suddenly know what I’m doing,” he finished bitterly.
You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of those words. Because there it was, the fear. The raw, honest fear.
“I keep thinking about him,” he murmured, voice lowering. “He made all of this look so easy,” he admitted.
You felt tears threaten unexpectedly.
“He walked into a room, and people listened,” Valarr continued softly. “He knew what to say. He knew how to lead.” His gaze dropped, and his voice grew even quieter. “I don’t know if I can be him.”
Those words, so fragile and vulnerable, stole your breath. This was what haunted him, not just the loss of his father, but the fear of what he was supposed to become. The heir. The future. The man everyone now looked toward. You moved closer, crossing the space between you, and gently took his hand in yours. This time, he didn’t pull away. This time, he let you. Your fingers curled around his, warm and trembling. “You are not supposed to be him,” you whispered softly.
His eyes lifted, confused, lost.
“He was your father,” you reminded him gently. “You were never meant to be him, either.” You brushed your thumb across his knuckles, steadying him. “Do you want to know what else he told me at Ashford?”
His brow furrowed, trying to recall.
You smiled softly. “He spent half an afternoon talking about how proud he was of you.” The emotion returned immediately, grief, longing, love, all of it flooding back in a rush. “He told me what a good father you are.” Your voice wavered, but you pushed through, speaking softly. “What a good husband. What a good man.” Valarr looked away, unable to bear the words. Gently, you guided his gaze back to yours. “He wasn’t proud because you were becoming him,” you said quietly. “He was proud because you became yourself.”
And suddenly, his eyes shone, tears brimming at the edges, but not falling. The distance you’d felt these past weeks seemed to crack just a little, enough to remind you that he was still there, still your Valarr. “I’m sorry,” he finally whispered, voice thick with emotion.
You blinked, surprised. “What for?”
His gaze dropped, ashamed. “I know I’ve been…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Distant.”
Your heart ached at that, because he had noticed it too. You offered a gentle, sad smile. “A little,” you admitted.
He let out a short, almost bitter laugh, then fell silent. Finally, he whispered, “I didn’t know how to carry all of it.” His honesty was devastating. “My father,” he said softly. “The crown. You. Vaella. And the baby.” Tears burned anew, overwhelming you with emotion. He sounded overwhelmed, nothing weak, only painfully human. You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. He finally allowed himself to lean back, to stop carrying everything alone, even if just for a moment. And in the quiet warmth of your chambers, with Vaella’s laughter drifting in the background and another child growing unseen beneath your heart, the two of you sat together, grief, responsibility, fear, and love all intertwined. Not as heir and princess, not as future king and queen. Simply as husband and wife.
______
The morning was quiet, an unusually rare thing in the Red Keep. No councillors waited outside the door, no petitions pressed for attention, no visitors demanding your husband's time before dawn. There was only you, him, and the soft golden light filtering through the curtains, as the castle slowly stirred to life around you. Vaella was still asleep in the nursery, or at least the nurses had not yet come rushing after her, what a miracle that was. You lay curled against Valarr’s side beneath the blankets, savoring the rare luxury of doing absolutely nothing. For several minutes, neither of you spoke, and the silence was comfortable, familiar, an unspoken rhythm built over years. Valarr’s arm rested loosely around your waist, while his other hand had somehow found its way beneath the blankets. At present, his fingertips were absentmindedly tracing small circles across the slight swell beneath your nightgown. You glanced down at his hand, then back up at his face.
“You realize there’s barely anything there,” you said softly.
His eyes remained closed. “Hm,” he replied, as if still lost in sleep.
“A bump the size of an apple doesn’t require this much attention,” you added, raising an eyebrow.
“Hm,” he echoed lazily.
You narrowed your eyes, amused. Finally, Valarr opened one eye. “I disagree,” he said softly. A laugh escaped you. His hand moved again, lingering over your stomach, protective and gentle. You knew he didn’t even realize he was doing it anymore, not consciously. Since Ashford, he seemed drawn toward the reassurance that the people he loved were still here, still safe, still real. That realization made your chest ache softly, nothing painful, just a gentle ache that reminded you how fragile it all was.
“What are you hoping for?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Valarr glanced down at your stomach, then back up at your face. “A healthy child,” he said quickly.
You rolled your eyes, smiling. “There he is,” you teased.
His mouth twitched into a faint smile. “What?” he asked.
“The future king giving the right answer,” you said with a playful grin.
“It is the right answer,” he replied, voice calm.
“It is,” you agreed. “But it’s not the honest one,” you added softly.
That earned a genuine laugh from him, one that lit up the morning like sunlight spilling through the windows. Valarr looked away briefly, caught in your teasing. You knew him well enough to see the slight flush of embarrassment, he couldn’t help but smile at your persistence.
“Oh,” you said, leaning in closer.
“No,” he protested, voice thick with mock defensiveness.
“Oh, yes,” you countered.
“Alysanne,” he groaned.
“You want a son,” you declared triumphantly, voice playful but pointed.
His groan was both amused and resigned. “I did not say that,” he muttered.
“You didn’t have to.”
His expression became long-suffering, yet it only made you laugh all the more.
“I already gave you a daughter,” you teased.
“A remarkable daughter,” he replied, a hint of pride slipping into his voice.
“Flatterer,” you chuckled.
“It’s true,” he said softly, eyes shining as they lingered on Vaella’s sleeping form in your mind.
You tilted your head, studying him. “You do want a son,” you pressed gently.
Valarr hesitated only briefly before sighing. “A little,” he admitted softly.
You laughed, feeling victorious. “A little,” you repeated gleefully. You couldn’t help but grin at your victory. Finally, Valarr reached out and pinched your side lightly, earning an offended gasp from you.
“That was unnecessary,” you protested.
“It was extremely necessary,” he said with a smirk. You snorted, then settled back against him again, comforted and warm. For a few moments, the conversation drifted away, the quiet morning wrapping around you both. Until Valarr broke the silence with a question that caught you off guard.
“Have you thought about names?” You looked up, surprised. He was gazing down at your stomach again, thoughtful, quiet, something softening in his expression that you recognized immediately. The shift was almost imperceptible, but it was there. You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers. “What names have you thought about?” you asked softly.
He didn’t answer right away, the silence stretching comfortably between you. Not uncomfortable, just reflective. Finally, he spoke, his voice gentle. “If it’s a boy,” he said softly, “I’d like to call him Baelor.”
Your heart clenched at once. You had known it would be. Still, hearing it aloud made it real in a different way. The room grew quieter. The morning seemed softer, the light gentler. Valarr’s gaze never left your stomach, as if he was already imagining the child, imagining introducing a son to the father he loved so much. Only to remember he never could.
“He would like that,” you whispered softly. Valarr swallowed, his throat working, silent for a moment. “I hope so,” he finally said, the vulnerability in those words nearly breaking your heart. Because suddenly, he no longer sounded like an heir or a prince. He sounded like a son, a son who missed his father, who wished he could ask for his advice just once more. You squeezed his hand gently. “He adored you,” you said softly.
Valarr closed his eyes briefly, a faint, sad smile touching his lips, so warm and bittersweet. “He adored Vaella,” he whispered.
“He absolutely did,” you said softly, a small laugh escaping both of you because that was undeniably true. You settled closer against him, resting your head on his shoulder.
“If this baby is a girl,” he murmured, “then I suppose you already have twelve names prepared.”
You gasped, feigning offense. “I do not,” you protested.
“You absolutely do,” he teased, smiling.
“I have maybe three,” you admitted.
“Three?”
“Maybe four,” you said with a mischievous grin. He laughed, and the sound filled the room. It was the kind of laugh that had become rarer in these past months, yet hearing it now made you realize how much you’d missed it. His hand drifted back to your stomach, resting there protectively, lovingly, hopeful and neither of you spoke again for a while, the future still uncertain, the grief still lingering. Some mornings, it would always be there. But lying together beneath the blankets, with your daughter sleeping nearby and another child growing quietly beneath your heart, the future suddenly felt a little less frightening.
______
The morning light spills softly through the curtains, casting a gentle glow across the chamber. For several blissful seconds, you lie there, savoring the quiet serenity. Then you hear a cough. Deep, rough, and unmistakably alarming. Your eyes snap open immediately. Valarr is sitting on the edge of the bed, and even from behind, you can tell something is wrong. Your stomach tightens instinctively.
“Valarr?” you ask, voice edged with concern.
He glances over his shoulder, and the moment you see his face, you sit upright with growing alarm. Gods. He looks terrible. Pale, far too pale. There’s a sheen of sweat across his forehead despite the chamber being pleasantly cool, and dark shadows linger beneath his eyes, shadows that had not been there yesterday. Your concern is immediate and sharp. “What happened to you?” you demand softly.
Valarr blinks, confused, as if the answer should be obvious. “What?” he responds, voice hoarse.
“You look awful,” you say, unable to hide your worry. Before you can stop yourself, the words come rushing out. He actually laughs. A mistake. Because the laugh immediately turns into another cough, rough and rattling. You narrow your eyes, displeased.
Valarr waves a dismissive hand, trying to brush it off. “I’m fine,” he insists stubbornly.
“No,” you reply, crossing your arms.
“I am,” he counters, voice firm but strained.
“No.”
The word leaves your lips before you can think, sharp and unwavering. He looks genuinely offended. You throw back the blankets and move closer, placing your hand against his forehead. His skin is warm, far too warm.
“Alysanne,” he begins, voice pleading.
“You have a fever,” you cut him off gently but firmly.
“I do not,” he protests.
“You absolutely do,” you insist, gaze narrowing. Valarr sighs, the sigh turning into another cough. Your patience begins to wear thin.
“I have meetings this morning,” he mutters, trying to regain some control.
“No,” you say decisively. “You need the maester,” you state plainly. He looks ready to argue further, but another cough interrupts him. You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. Valarr glares, stubborn and stubbornly miserable. You feel remarkably vindicated.
“Bed,” you command, voice firm with authority. He stares at you, defeated, then slowly lowers himself back onto the mattress, still looking deeply unhappy about it. You lean down and kiss his forehead, gently, despite his stubbornness because even through his stubbornness, he looks genuinely miserable. “Good,” you say softly.
He mutters, “I dislike you,” but the words are weak, and his expression suggests he knows it’s true.
“You adore me,” you reply with a smile. His face, stubborn and proud, suggests otherwise, yet you know the truth. And you will see to it that he stays in bed until he’s better.
_____
By midday, the weather was perfect. Clear skies stretching endlessly overhead, the gardens overflowing with vibrant flowers. Usually, you would be enjoying the warmth, the scent of blossoms, the gentle hum of courtly life. But today, a part of your mind remains stubbornly upstairs, fixed on one thing: your husband. He had looked far too ill for your liking this morning. The memory of his pale face, the sweat on his brow, the trembling cough, those images refuse to fade. You push the thought aside, forcing yourself to focus on the present. Vaella is sitting in the grass between you and her nurse, enthusiastically attempting to destroy a perfectly innocent flower, her face lit with innocent delight. A lady’s maid nearby is laughing softly, and despite yourself, a small smile twitches at your lips. Gods, you love that child. One of the younger ladies of court pauses nearby, then another, and soon several more have gathered beneath the shade of the trees. The conversation drifts lazily to fashion, the weather, court gossip, nothing urgent, nothing pressing. Until someone casually mentions, “Have you heard about the spring sickness?”
Your ears immediately prick up. “The what?” you ask sharply.
One of the women blinks, surprised. “You haven’t heard?”
You shake your head, unease creeping up your spine. The women exchange glances, none of them reassuring. “The sickness spreading through the city,” one says quietly. Your stomach tightens.
“It started among the poorer districts,” another adds, voice low and careful.
“Or at least that’s what people say,” someone else murmurs.
“And now?”
The response is swift and grim. “Everywhere.”
A cold weight settles in your chest. You look between them, trying to gauge whether they’re exaggerating. But their faces tell the truth, this is no rumor, no idle gossip.
“We’ve already heard dozens have died,” someone breathes.
“Dozens? Perhaps more,” another whispers.
One woman lowers her voice almost to a whisper. “My brother says entire households have fallen ill.” A heavy silence follows. “There are cases inside the Red Keep now as well,” someone adds grimly.
The world seems to narrow around you, just slightly, but enough to make your stomach churn. “What?” The word escapes your lips before you can think.
“Servants,” a woman says matter-of-factly.
“Kitchen workers, stable boys,” another adds.
A third joins in, eyes darkening. “I heard two chambermaids were sent away yesterday.”
Your pulse begins to quicken, without your permission, without your control. And suddenly, Valarr’s face flashes through your mind, pale, sweating, coughing, so exhausted this morning. You stare at the women, but your thoughts drown out the conversation.. numbers, rumors, deaths. You hear none of it. Your focus is entirely elsewhere. A terrible, growing dread takes root in your chest, slow and relentless. Surely not. Surely it cannot be related. People fall ill all the time with fevers, coughs, common ailments. And yet, your mind keeps returning to the sight of him, this morning’s warmth beneath your hand, the exhaustion in his eyes, the rough cough that still echoes in your ears. Gods, his cough. You glance toward Vaella, happily sitting in the grass, completely unaware of the danger, but her innocent presence only makes the fear worse, tightening your chest. Without warning, you rise so abruptly that the others fall silent.
“My lady?” someone asks, concern flickering across her face.
You force a smile, a poor, fragile thing. “I’m afraid I need to return inside,” you say hurriedly. The nurse immediately notices your expression, concern flashing across her face. You kneel beside Vaella, brushing a hand through her silver-gold hair before looking up. “I’d like you to keep her out here for a little while longer,” you instruct softly.
The nurse blinks, surprised. “My lady?” she asks.
“And stay with her,” you add, voice steady but urgent. Your lady’s maid watches you closely now, understanding dawning. Without another word, you stand and already turn back toward the castle, your steps quickening despite yourself. And for the first time all day, a genuine fear begins to creep into your heart, an icy, relentless dread that this morning’s fever could be something far worse. You need to see your husband. You need to know he’s alright. You need reassurance that this morning was nothing more than a common fever, nothing dangerous, nothing to fear.
_____
You quicken your steps through the corridors of the Red Keep, clutching your skirts in one hand while your lady’s maid struggles to keep pace beside you. Every terrible possibility seems to press against your mind, demanding attention. Perhaps the maester was mistaken.Perhaps Valarr’s fever has already broken.Perhaps he was merely sleeping. But then the sight that greets you outside your chambers stops you cold. Two guards stand at the door, unmoving, silent. Not unusual in itself, but what is strange is that neither steps aside when they see you approaching. Your steps slow, then halt, a cold prickling down your spine.
“I’d like to see my husband,” you say, voice trembling with authority.
Neither guard moves. For a long moment, neither speaks.
You stare, waiting, expecting one of them to step aside, to give way. But they remain firm, silent.
“My lady,” one finally says, voice cautious, “the maester has instructed that nobody enter.”
Your breath catches. Surely you have misheard. “Pardon me?”
The guard swallows visibly. “The maester’s orders,” he repeats softly.
You stare at him, then at the door, then back again, disbelief washing over you. The absurdity hits you all at once. “Those are my chambers.”
The guard shifts uncomfortably. “My lady-”
“That is my husband,” you interrupt sharply, voice rising. “Open the door.” Neither man moves. Something inside you snaps, just enough. “Open,” you demand, voice cracking through the corridor like a lash. The silence stretches. Your lady’s maid looks alarmed and the guards look worse and still, the door remains closed. Your pulse races, pounding in your ears, as a flood of horrible thoughts rush through your mind. Who are they to keep me out? “Move,” you command desperately.
“My lady-”
“I said move.”
The second guard takes a small step forward, neither threatening nor yielding. Just blocking and fury wells up inside you, an unrelenting, burning fury.
“Who do you think you are?” your voice rises, fierce and unyielding. “You do not keep me from my own husband.”
Nearby servants stop to stare, but your focus blurs out their whispers. “I want to see him.”
“My lady,” the maester’s voice finally cuts through the tense silence. The old man emerges from within, closing the door quietly behind him.
You take two quick steps toward him.
“What is going on?” you demand, voice thick with emotion. “I want to see my husband.”
The maester’s face softens, and that gentle expression only makes everything worse.
“My lady,” he begins carefully.
“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head, panic rising. “What happened?”
He exhales slowly, choosing his words with painstaking care, more carefully than you want. “It appears Prince Valarr has contracted the spring sickness.”
The words echo coldly in your mind, like a death knell. Spring sickness. Your stomach plummets. “No,” you whisper instinctively, without hesitation. “No.”
The maester remains silent. You stare at him, then at the door, then back again. “He has a fever,” you say desperately, voice trembling.
“My lady-”
“He was coughing,” you press on, voice rising. A pause. “That doesn’t mean-”
“The symptoms are consistent,” you cut him off, voice sharp and unwavering.
The words feel like knives. You hate him for saying them. You hate him for looking sympathetic. You hate him for standing between you and that door. “I want to see him,” you say again, voice quieter but more dangerous.
The maester shakes his head. “He’s sleeping,” he insists gently.
“I don’t care,” you reply, voice trembling with emotion. “I said I don’t care.”
The corridor falls into oppressive silence.
Even the servants seem afraid to move.
You take another step forward. “That is MY husband,” you whisper, trembling.
“And he is very ill,” the maester responds softly, almost soothing. “Just like many others,” he adds, too softly.
Your heart stumbles. Many others. The words linger, wrong and bitter. You think of the women in the gardens, the rumors, the deaths. No. It cannot be. You look at him, exhausted, worried and somehow sad. And for the first time, genuine fear clenches your chest, fear, not concern, not unease. Real, visceral.
“He’ll recover,” you say aloud, as if speaking it might make it true, as if hearing your own words could somehow will it to happen.
The maester hesitates, and that hesitation terrifies you. “I want to see him,” you say more softly, almost pleading.
He sighs, then finally, with gentle regret, says, “You must think of your children.”
Your breath catches. “My children?”
“Princess Vaella,” he says carefully, “and the child you carry.”
Your hand instinctively moves to your stomach. Protectively.
“This illness spreads easily,” he warns quietly. “Very easily.”
You stare at him, trying to comprehend. Trying not to.
“If you become ill-”
“I won’t,” you cut him off fiercely.
“You do not know that,” he replies gently.
The words hang heavy in the small space. The corridor feels too tight, too warm, too crowded. The maester lowers his voice, as if reluctant to say what must be said aloud. “There have been many deaths in the city,” he murmurs quietly.
Your chest tightens painfully. “No,” you whisper.
“They are true,” he confirms softly.
And in that moment, fear surges so sharp and unrelenting. Your pulse pounds deafeningly. “If the worst were to happen-”
“No,” you shout, almost violent in your denial.
The maester swallows, then presses on. “If the worst were to happen, my lady. Princess Vaella could lose both her parents, that’s why I must keep you from this chapter. I do apologize.”
The world stops. Time halts in that cruel instant. You stare, unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to process. Vaella. Orphaned. The nightmare flashes in your mind, your child, alone, without her parents.
Gone. Valarr gone. You gone. Vaella alone. Your stomach twists violently. “No,” you whisper, broken and hollow. The maester steps closer, not quite touching but sympathetic. “We are doing everything we can,” he says softly. “The prince is receiving the best care available.”
Your eyes drift to the door, your husband’s room, beyond which he lies sick and alone. The tears finally spill over, hot, silent and unstoppable. You wipe them away angrily, refusing to break now, not here, not yet. The maester says something else, but you don’t hear it. Because there’s only one question left, one terrible, unspoken question.
Your voice barely audible, trembling with fear. “Is my husband going to die?”
to be continued...
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tag list: @gknj9495 @hydracassiopeiadarablack @062292 @white-olive @xxvelvetxxxx
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DONT HATE ME. I HAD to split it bc this whole chapter is so fucking long and trust me, ones feelings can only take so much at a time.
also rereading it now I have realized that the last thing he said to her (for now or not, won't give spoilers) is I DONT LIKE YOU. what am I doing to myself.
Anyway, the next part will be the final chapter of this story. someone hold my hand through it.
also, writing this the only thing I could think off was this stupid 500 miles song.
Pairing: Modern Valarr Targaryen x female OC, Modern Aerion Targaryen x female OC
Word Count: 4.6k
Warnings: SMUT! Oral (male receiving), fingering, p in v, male virgin, cheating - do not read if you’re not comfortable!!!
Summary: friends to lovers. Serena tells herself it's fine; that Aerion will change, that this is what love is supposed to look like. Valarr is determined to prove her wrong, he's just never meant to fall in love with her while doing so.
Previous chapter can be found here
Serena’s POV
I don’t know how we get upstairs. Later, if someone asked me, I wouldn’t be able to tell them whether we walked or floated or simply disappeared from the garden and reappeared here, because my memory of those few minutes exists only in fragments.
The warmth of his hand.
The sound of my own heartbeat.
His mouth on mine.
Everything else feels blurred around the edges. The bedroom is dark except for the soft glow filtering through the curtains, the last traces of summer evening painting pale streaks across the floor, but I barely notice any of it because all I can seem to focus on is him. I stand in front of him, close enough that our bodies are almost touching, and I can’t stop looking at him. At the familiar shape of his face. At his beautiful eyes that have spent two years watching me with a restraint I only understand now. At the mouth that has just completely ruined me.
My chest feels impossibly light, as though someone has cut through every knot I’ve been carrying around for months and suddenly allowed me to breathe properly again. I hadn’t even realized how exhausted I was. How much energy it took to pretend..
To explain away every look and every moment and every feeling that refused to disappear. And now there’s nothing left to explain. The truth is sitting between us, exposed and undeniable. A laugh almost escapes me because I genuinely don’t know what to do with the overwhelming happiness crashing through me. I feel dizzy.
In the way people must feel when they’ve been holding their breath for too long and suddenly remember what oxygen is. His hand settles against my waist. The simple weight of it sends another rush of heat through me, like my body hasn’t caught up to reality yet. Like part of me is still waiting for someone to tell me this isn’t actually happening. For the first time since I’ve known him, there is absolutely nothing hidden behind his gaze. Just want. The realization makes my stomach flip. His eyes move slowly across my face, as though he’s trying to convince himself that I’m actually standing here, like he’s still waiting to wake up. A faint smile touches his mouth as his thumb brushes lightly against my side and I notice the way his jaw tightens immediately afterward. The way he looks away for a second and exhales. And suddenly I understand. He’s struggling too. The thought sends another wave of warmth through me because for all the confidence in his confession, for all the certainty in his voice when he told me he loved me, this is affecting him every bit as much. Maybe more. His gaze returns to mine.
“You’re staring,” I say softly.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I know.”
“Why?”
A quiet laugh escapes him, almost disbelieving. “Because every time I stop looking at you, I simply have to look again.”
My heart does something stupid. His eyes drop briefly to my mouth, then back up. The silence stretches and his hand tightens slightly against my waist. His eyes close briefly, like he’s collecting himself. When they open again, they’re darker. Less controlled. And that look- God. That look.
It sends heat flooding through me so quickly I nearly forget how to breathe.
“Tell me if I do anything you don’t want.” His voice is lower now. The words settle somewhere deep inside my chest. Every part of him is giving me a choice. Even now.
Especially now. I take a small step closer and the distance disappears completely.
His breath catches as n y hand slides up his chest. I feel his heartbeat beneath my palm, much faster than I expected.
A smile pulls at my mouth. “You’re nervous.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “Little bit.”
The honesty makes something inside me melt. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this. So vulnerable and uncertain. Wanting something badly enough that he’s afraid of getting it wrong.
My fingers curl lightly into his shirt. “Why?”
His eyes meet mine and for a second he just looks at me, like the answer should be obvious. “Because it’s you.” His hand slides slightly higher along my back. Careful and tentative in a way I’ve never seen from him before. Like he’s asking without using words. I lean into him before I can think about it and his forehead drops gently against mine. I’ve noticed before that whenever I touch him, whenever I brush his arm or fix his collar or rest my hand on his shoulder for even a second, he leans into it without realizing. The smallest unconscious movement toward warmth. He does it now and something about that nearly undoes me. I reach up and touch his jaw.
“Hey,” I whisper.
His eyes close briefly. “Hey.”
“You know you don’t have to perform anything, right?” My thumb brushes lightly across his cheek. The warmth of his skin. The way he leans into my hand again.
“There’s no version of tonight where you do anything wrong.”
For a second he just looks at me, his expression softening even more.
“I’ve wanted to do this for so long… I don’t want to make a fool of myself now..”
My chest tightens at his confession because he’s not only being honest with me, but with himself as well. His hand slides lower along my back, still careful, still giving me every opportunity to stop him, but there is no mistaking what he wants. No mistaking the way his breathing has changed. The way his eyes keep finding my mouth. The way every ounce of restraint he’s built over two years seems to be hanging by a thread.
“Is this okay?” he asks quietly. His hand stills completely.
The question settles between us and the answer feels like the easiest thing I’ve ever known. “Yeah,” I whisper.
The relief that crosses his face is immediate and then he kisses me again and the moment his mouth finds mine, every coherent thought I possess simply dissolves.
My hands slide into his hair while arm tightens around my waist. The kiss deepens slowly, naturally, like neither of us can quite get enough despite the fact that we’ve barely stopped. This… this feels so dangerously easy. Like I’ve spent years walking in the wrong direction without realizing it. I find myself wanting more, wanting him closer. Wanting all of the distance gone. The realization arrives before I can overthink it, before I can talk myself out of it.
My hand slips down his arm until my fingers find his wrist and gently, almost absentmindedly, I guide his hand lower until it rests against my butt. Simply because it feels right. Because every instinct I have is pulling me toward him. His breath catches against my mouth, enough that heat rushes through me all over again. When I pull back, it’s only far enough to look at him.
His forehead rests against mine, both of us smiling now. A little breathless and overwhelmed, but far from pretending.
“Valarr, I-“ I can barely catch my breath and my heart is beating so fast, I can’t focus on anything else. “Do you trust me?” I asks, gazing into his eyes to find even a flicker of doubt.
“Yes” he answers immediately, a smile at the corner of his mouth. “I do.”
I smile and slowly I reach for the front of his linen shirt and push it back off his shoulders, and he shrugs it off and lets it fall, and I look at him properly for the first time since our last beach day and feel my breath do something small and involuntary in my chest. He's broader than his clothes suggest, the line of his shoulders and the plane of his chest catching the low light of his room, and there's a scatter of dark hair across his sternum that I hadn't quite anticipated, a detail that makes him look more solid than I'd allowed myself to imagine, and I find I can't stop looking at it.
He's not performing being comfortable. He simply is, with the unself-conscious ease of someone who doesn't yet know he's worth looking at, which is perhaps the most attractive thing about him.
I press my palm flat against his chest, right over the dark hair, and feel his heartbeat beneath it, faster than normal. A smile tugs at my lips as I feel him staring at every movement of my hand.
"Sit on the bed," I say. He does, lowering himself to the edge of the mattress and he looks up at me from there and waits, his gaze never leaving me.
I reach for the tie at the side of my dress and pull it loose, so the dress falls, pooling at my feet, leaving me in the white bikini I'd had on all afternoon. His expression does something I want to spend considerable time studying, something unguarded and consuming, moving across his face before he can manage it, his gaze moving over me slowly and without apology, starting at my face and moving down with a deliberateness that makes my skin warm everywhere it lands.
"God," he says, low and slightly rough, and it isn't performed, just the plain and helpless sound of being confronted with something he’s been thinking about. "You looked so good today. All day. In this-" His eyes move over the bikini, the white of it against my skin in the low light, and his expression tightens. "I've been losing my mind since you walked through that gate."
"Yeah?" I say.
"The whole afternoon," he says, and his voice has gone darker, less managed. "Every time I looked at you I had to look somewhere else. It was-" He stops. "It wasn't easy."
I chuckle a bit as I cross to him and he starts to reach for me immediately, but I take his hands gently and guide them back to his sides, and he goes still immediately, looking up at me with a question in his expression.
"Let me," I say. "Is that okay?"
He swallows. "Yeah."
"Good." I kneel down in front of him and watch raw understanding move through his face in real time.
"Serena.. you don’t have to."
"I know I don't have to," I say, looking up at him steadily. "That's not what this is."
He seems to relax a bit at that.
I reach for the waistband of his swim shorts and he lifts his hips slightly to help me pull them down and off, and then I look at him properly, all of him, in the low light and I feel my breath shift in a way I don't even try to conceal. He's more than I'd let myself think about. Thick and slightly hard and already a bit flushed at the tip, longer than I'd expected and the hair at the base of him trimmed close and dark, and he's watching me with those eyes with an expression caught somewhere between want and disbelief, like some part of him still isn't entirely sure this is real.
"God," I say, and I mean it entirely, my hand wrapping around him slowly, feeling the weight and warmth of him. "Valarr."
He lets out a small gasp.
"You're big," I say, and I hold his gaze when I say it, watching the words land.. watching the slightly stunned quality of him receiving information his ego hadn't quite prepared for. "I mean it. You're perfect."
"I-" He stops. His jaw is tight.
"You have absolutely nothing to be nervous about," I say, stroking him once, slowly, feeling him twitch in my palm. "You understand me?"
He exhales sharply. "When you say it like that-"
"Like what?"
"Like you mean it," he says, low and rough.
"Because I do." I stroke him again, twisting slightly at the base, and his moan is barely contained. "Tell me what you feel."
"I genuinely don't have a comparison yet," he manages.
"Then just feel it," I say as I lean in and press my lips to the tip of him, just a slow, warm press, my tongue tracing the edge of it and the sound he makes goes straight through me, a full-body shudder, his hand coming immediately to the back of my head and then going carefully, deliberately still.
I take him into my mouth and the gasps leaving his lips is entirely unmanaged.
I go slowly, because I want every second of this to matter to him, my hand working the base of him in rhythm, and I feel his thighs trembling on either side of me with the specific effort of him holding very, very still against every instinct. I pull back to the tip and work my tongue in slow circles over the small slit, feeling his hand tighten fractionally in my hair, and then I take him deep again, hollowing my cheeks as I suck, my free hand finding the warm weight of his balls, rolling them gently, and the sound that comes out of him at that is something I am going to keep with me forever.
"Jesus-" Rough, wrecked. "Serena- what are you- fuck-"
I hum around him and his hips press forward before catching themselves. "You taste so good," I say against him, pulling back just enough to speak, my hand still working him steadily. "You feel incredible in my mouth. Do you know that?"
The desperate whine of his is something I feel across my whole spine.
"Serena-" My name in his voice like that, lower, completely gone, does something directly to my stomach. "You can't just say things like that"
"Yes I can," I say. "Because they're true." I look up at him, holding his gaze. "You're gorgeous. I need you to know that."
His expression breaks entirely open.
I take him deeper and feel him give in properly this time, a long, low groan escaping him that he makes no attempt at containing, his hips moving with me now rather than fighting themselves, and I work him with everything I have, slow and deliberate and entirely focused, my hand and my mouth finding a rhythm together, until his breathing above me has completely come apart.
"Serena" Barely a word. "I'm- I can't- you need to stop, I'm going to-"
"Not yet," I say, and I pull back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and I look up at him and the look on his face is the most undone thing I've ever seen.
He looks down at me and blinks. "That's the most.. I've never-"
"I know," I say.
"Come here," he says, rough and immediate, and he reaches for me and draws me up and onto the bed beside him, and he lies there with his hand against my face, his thumb moving slowly across my cheekbone, his chest heaving.
"You okay?" I ask.
"That's my question," he says, grinning.
"I asked first."
Something moves at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah. More than okay." A pause. "I think my soul left my body."
I laugh at his comment and he looks at me as if it’s the most beautiful sound in the world. He kisses me then, slower than before, and his hands begin to move along my sides with the deliberate focus of a man who has just been thoroughly taken apart and is now turning his full and considerable attention in the other direction. His palms slide up my ribcage to where the bikini top sits and he looks at me with a question.
I reach back and undo the clasp myself, pulling it free, and the way he looks at me when it falls away makes me feel purely and completely beautiful in a way I wasn't prepared for. He touches me. His hands are careful at first, learning, cupping the weight of me, his thumbs brushing over my nipples with a reverence that sends heat flooding directly through me and then less careful, more certain, reading my breathing the way he reads everything, adjusting with each response I give him. He ducks his head and his mouth finds me and I let out a sharp, involuntary moan, my hand going to the back of his head as he pulls my nipple between his lips, soft at first and then with more pressure when my fingers tighten in his hair.
"God," he breathes against my skin. "Serena. You're unreal." He pulls back just enough to look, at his own hands, at me, at the two of us in the low light and his expression is reverent and completely undone. "I've thought about-" He stops.
"Tell me," I say softly.
"Your tits," he says, and the plain and slightly rough honesty of it does something immediate to my stomach. "Since that green dress on your birthday. I went home and I couldn't stop thinking about them and I-" His hands cup me again, thumbs moving in slow circles, watching my face as he does. "They're perfect. You're perfect."
"Keep going," I manage.
He does. His mouth moves between them with a thoroughness that makes it entirely clear he has been thinking about this and I let him, feeling every press of his lips and every brush of his thumbs until the heat of it has built into something that needs somewhere to go.
"Touch me," I say. "Lower. I need- please"
"Tell me how," he says immediately, lifting his head, and the readiness of it, the lack of hesitation, makes me breathe.
"I'll show you," I say.
I reach for his hand and guide it down and the moment his fingers find my pussy, I inhale sharply, my hips lifting off the mattress without my permission as he touches my folds before sinking one finger into me.
"There," I manage. "Yes- exactly-"
He learns terrifyingly fast. That's what undoes me.. the speed of it, the way he goes from uncertain to utterly certain in the space of a few minutes, watching my face with that total and consuming attention and adjusting with every shift in my breathing, every sound I can't contain. He works me slowly, one finger and then two, curling in a way that makes my whole body arch, his thumb circling my clit with a patience that is more devastating than urgency would be, and the sounds I'm making have stopped being managed entirely.
"You're so wet," he says, low and slightly awed, and there's nothing practiced about the way he says it. "God- Serena.. is that because of-"
"Because of you," I say. "Yeah."
His breath goes uneven and I can tell he swallows a curse.
"You're doing everything right," I tell him. "I need you to know that. You feel so good.. you have no idea"
He makes a rough, quiet groan at the praise and presses deeper, and the combination of his fingers inside me and his thumb on my clit and his mouth back at my throat tips me over faster than I planned, and I come apart under his hands with his name on my lips, shaking through the whole of it while he watches my face like he's committing every second to memory.
"I want you, please. I want all of you." I say, when I've found myself again. "I'm on birth control," I say. "Been for years."
He exhales. "Okay." A pause. "I haven't- I mean, obviously. So you don't need to-"
"I know," I say. "I know you haven't."
He nods once, the slight self-consciousness of it entirely endearing, and I squeeze his hand.
"We're okay," I say before I push him gently back against the pillows and swing my leg over him, sitting up so I can look at him fully, the width of his chest, the dark hair scattered across it, the line of his stomach, and the look on his face.
"You're nervous," I say.
"I want to be good at this," he says, honestly, without dressing it up.
"You already are," I tell him. "You have been all night."
"That's different."
"It isn't." I reach down and wrap my hand around his cock, feeling it twitch in my palm, still hard, and I stroke him slowly while I hold his gaze. "You've been good at everything I've asked. This is no different." I lean down and press my lips to the center of his chest, to the dark hair there, and feel him exhale. "Trust that. Can you do that?"
"When you put it like that," he says, rough and low.
"Good," I say as I lift my hips slightly and uide him to where I need him, running his tip through my wet folds, and feel him tense beneath me, the full-body effort of staying still, waiting, trusting me to take the lead, and I hold him by my entrance for a moment, feeling the blunt press of his tip, the heat of it.
"Ready?" I ask, checking for any signs of doubt on his face.
"Yes," he says. Immediate. No hesitation at all.
I sink down onto him. Slowly, taking every inch, and the stretch of him filling me pulls a low and involuntary moan from somewhere deep in my chest that I couldn't have contained if I'd tried. He's thick enough that I feel it everywhere, the fullness of him spreading through me as I lower myself, inch by careful inch, until I'm fully seated on his cock and we're completely pressed together and I'm breathing through the extraordinary, overwhelming warmth of it.
His jaw has dropped. His hands grip my thighs hard enough that I'll feel it tomorrow, and his eyes are wide and dark and fixed on my face with the expression of someone who has just discovered that reality exceeds imagination by an order of magnitude he hadn't prepared for.
"Fuck," he breathes. Just that. Barely a word.
"Good, right? You’re so big" I say softly, looking down at him. Something moves across his face that is simultaneously embarrassed and deeply, helplessly pleased. "You don't have to-"
"You fill me up completely," I say, because he does, and because the look on his face when I say it is worth every syllable. "You feel incredible inside me. You have no idea how good you feel."
His hands tighten on my thighs. "Serena-"
"I mean every word," I say. "You're perfect."
I start to move then. Slowly at first, rolling my hips, feeling the drag and press of him as I find the angle, and I watch every expression that crosses his face with focused attention, not wanting to miss a single look. The slight parting of his lips. The way his eyes flutter before he pulls them back to mine. The tightening of his jaw when I sink back down after pulling almost all the way up.
"Does that feel good?" I ask.
"Yes." Immediate and rough.
"Tell me," I say. "I want to hear you."
"You're so warm," he says, and the plain helplessness of it goes straight through me, making me even wetter. "God, Serena, you feel-I couldn't have- you feel so fucking good around me, I can't-" A sharp exhale as I roll my hips in a slow circle and he loses the sentence entirely.
"Tell me more," I say. "Don't stop."
"I can feel everything," he says, rough and low and completely unguarded, and the honesty of it, the rawness of it, makes me move faster. "Every time you.. god, every time you move it's.. fuck, it’s so good"
"Yeah?" I say.
"Yeah," he manages. "Serena, I'm.. I need to-" He stops hard, his jaw going tight. "I'm trying not to-" He stops again, and I feel it in his hands, the white-knuckle grip on my hips, the specific tension of concentrating very hard on not crossing a line too early.
"Look at me," I say.
His eyes find mine.
"You feel me?" I say.
"Yes," he says, strained.
"Then just feel it," I say. "Don't think about anything else."
Something in him releases a fraction.
"You're doing so well," I tell him, leaning down so my chest brushes his, so he can feel the press of my breasts against the dark hair on his chest. "So good. You have no idea."
He makes a rough sound that vibrates through his whole chest at the praise and his hands slide from my hips up over my waist and higher until his palms find my breasts again and curve around them, and I feel him exhale like he's been wanting to do that since the moment I straddled him.
"God," he breathes, his hands full of me, his thumbs moving across my nipples in a way that makes it very difficult to stay at the pace I'd set. "I've thought about this- about you- I thought about your tits every time I looked at you in that bikini today, every single time, I kept thinking about, fuck-" He cuts himself off.
"Don't stop," I say. "Tell me."
"I thought about this," he says, rough and low and slightly mortified by his own honesty, his hands squeezing gently. "About you. Like this. I've been thinking about it all day and it's- you're so much better than I-" He loses the end of it as I ride him harder and his head tips back briefly before he brings it back to me.
I lean down and kiss him hard and move with him and starts to meet me mid thrust, his hips pressing up to push deeper, and we find a rhythm together that is instinctive and ours and his hands are moving between my breasts and my waist and my hair and his mouth is at my throat and we are both moaning so loud, neither of us is managing at all.
"Serena, please-" Rough, fractured, close. "I'm- I can't hold-"
"Don't hold it," I mumble against his mouth. "Come on. Let go."
"Come with me," he says, and his hand slides between us and finds my clit again, his thumb pressing exactly where I need it, and the combination of him filling me and the pressure there and the sound of his voice saying my name like that, pulls the orgasm out of me in a wave that I can't outrun, and I press my face to his neck and come apart with his name on my lips, my whole body clenching tight around him.
He follows me over immediately.
“Oh fuck” he grunts as his hands grip my hips and hold me down hard against him as he spills into me, a deep, shuddering pulse, again and again, a rough and broken sound tearing out of him that he makes no attempt to contain, and I feel every wave of it, the warmth of him flooding through me as he empties himself completely, his whole body shaking under mine until the very last of it passes and his grip goes loose.
Both of us still, breathing hard. I stay where I am, lying against his chest, and his arm comes around me in that solid and unhurried way, and beneath my ear his heartbeat is racing and then gradually, gradually slowing. His hand moves slowly up and down my spine.
"Hey," he says, after a long time. "You okay?"
"Very okay." I tip my head back to look at him, and his expression is something I haven't seen in the years of knowing this face, like the composure he's spent a long time building has been set aside in this room. "Are you?"
He looks at the ceiling for a moment. "I have no idea," he says honestly, "how I'm supposed to go back to normal after this."
Something settles in my chest, warm, but complicated. "Maybe you don't," I say.
He looks at me and his thumb brushes my lower lip.
Pairing: Modern Valarr Targaryen x female OC, Modern Aerion Targaryen x female OC
Word Count: 7k
Warnings: none.
Summary: friends to lovers. Serena tells herself it's fine; that Aerion will change, that this is what love is supposed to look like. Valarr is determined to prove her wrong, he's just never meant to fall in love with her while doing so.
Previous chapter can be found here
Aerion's cab came at seven-fifteen.
I know the exact time because I was awake when it did, lying on my side of the bed in the grey pre-morning light, listening to the sounds of him moving through the apartment with the practiced efficiency of someone who packed the night before and has nothing left to do but leave. The zip of the toiletry bag. The particular sound of the good suitcase rolling across the hallway floor. The keys from the bowl by the door, lifted and pocketed, and then his head around the bedroom door — just briefly, just long enough to say I'll text you when I land — and then the front door.
I lay there for a while after. His pillow still held the shape of him. His charger was still on the nightstand because he always forgets one thing and this time it was the charger, which meant a text sometime around noon asking me if I had seen it.
———
It takes me forty-five minutes to find the bikini. I know exactly where it is, at the back of the second drawer, underneath the one-piece I bought for the lido last summer and the black bandeau I've had since second year. I know where it is because I put it there deliberately, at the back, underneath things, because the back of the second drawer is where I put things that require a specific occasion for me to retrieve. Mostly I would keep some lingerie hidden right there.
The bikini is white and small and how much convincing it took Isla for me to buy it last summer. The way she had repeatedly told me it was the one until I believed it. I really liked the bikini though I only wore it once last August on a beach day, where I spend most of the afternoon in a t-shirt because Aerion did not like me wearing it when other guys are around. He told me it attracts too much attention and I should not have bought it. He never once told me I looked good in it.
I hold the bikini up, thinking about his comments from last year, before putting it on the bed and grabbing a towel to get a shower first. I'm thorough in a way I'm not always thorough. I use the good scrub, the one Mara gave me for my birthday that I've been rationing because it smells expensive and I've been saving it for occasions that warrant it, such as today. I shave my whole body with precision, taking an extra ten minutes to inspect every single inch of skin to see if I have missed a little spot of hair, like I always do on my knees, and because I need to make sure that I’ll get no razor bumps because today is not the occasion. I stand under the hot water for longer than I need to. I tell myself I'm just relaxing.
Aerion left this morning and it's a party and I should enjoy it and relaxing in the shower is a perfectly ordinary thing that has no particular implication, and the fact that I've been in here for twenty-three minutes is simply the result of having time to spare, because it is only ten-thirty and the party doesn't start until three and I have plenty of- I turn the shower off.
The getting ready takes the better part of three hours, which is longer than I've spent getting ready for anything in recent memory and which I could justify various ways if I needed to, the hair takes time when I want it to actually do something, the makeup requires more care in the summer heat if it's going to last, these are real and practical considerations, but which I am, somewhere beneath the practical considerations, aware is not entirely about practicality.
I do my hair properly. The heat protectant and the sections and the time spent on the pieces around my face that need coaxing into something they don't do naturally. By the time I'm done it falls the way it falls in the photos I actually like of myself, loose and warm and a bit undone. The makeup is natural enough to not look like makeup and takes thirty-five minutes, which is the specific paradox of natural makeup that I've never bothered to explain to anyone who hasn't lived it.
I moisturize from head to toe, the good lotion, the one that takes a few minutes to sink in and smells like coconut and raspberry ice cream, which made Aerion say what is that once in a complimentary way.
I put the bikini on and stand in front of the bathroom mirror. I look fine. I look better than fine, if I'm being honest, which I'm trying to be, because the alternative is lying to myself in ways I don't have the energy for this afternoon.
The dress question takes longer than the bikini question did, which is saying something. I go through four before I arrive at the right one. First the yellow sundress, which is nice but which I wear to everything and which feels like a default, like someone who wasn't trying to make an effort. Then the green one, which I hold up and then put back immediately because Luca had said, that Cressida-from-the-seminar's last boyfriend was also a fencer, and Valarr had been wearing green that day, and these two facts have absolutely no relationship to each other but my brain has linked them in a way I refuse to validate by wearing the green dress.
Then the white one, which I hold up for a long time.
It's short in the way that requires a specific kind of confidence to wear. It's got a low back and thin straps and it does the thing dresses sometimes do where it's technically just a dress and yet… yet it makes you feel a certain way.
It’s fine, I look fine. I repeatedly tell myself before grabbing my bag and heading out to the closest bus stop to catch a bus to Valarr’s house.
———
The party is already going when I arrive, which I knew it would be and which I'd timed deliberately, because arriving early to a pool party needs a particular confidence that I wasn't willing to commit to.
Valarr's garden is full. Not uncomfortably so because there's space, there's the wide stretch of the patio and the pool and the lawn beyond it, but full in the warm and generous way of a party that has hit the right number, the number where there are enough people that conversations happen naturally and the music doesn't feel performative and nobody is standing in a corner counting the distance between themselves and the exit. Someone has put up strings of lights along the fence line that aren't necessary yet in the afternoon sun but will matter later when the evening comes in. The pool is lit from below. There's a table near the back wall with drinks and ice and the particular hospitable chaos of a surface that has been carefully arranged and immediately dismantled by people helping themselves.
I know most of the people here. I make my way through the usual architecture of a group gathering, the hug hello with Mara, the drink acquired from the table, the easy conversation with Luca about something I immediately stop retaining because my attention has been doing a specific and inconvenient thing since I stepped through the gate, which is to locate Valarr in the space before I've consciously decided to look for him.
I find him in approximately four seconds.
He's near the pool, standing with a group I half-recognise from the fencing club, and he's got a beer in one hand and his head tilted slightly in the way he tilts it when he's listening to someone, and he's wearing a white linen shirt, open, over swim shorts, and he looks exactly like a person who is having a good time at his own party without trying to, which is infuriating in a way I'm not going to examine right now.
He hasn't seen me. Or he has and has chosen not to show it, which is its own kind of thing.
I look away as Isla appears at my shoulder. "You look incredible," she says, which I appreciate, and then she looks in the direction I'd just been looking and gives me a brief glance that I ignore completely.
"Thanks," I say. "Drink?"
"Already have one," she says. "Come, lets find a good spot.“
For the first hour, everything is fine. This is the version I tell myself and it is approximately sixty percent true, which is a passing grade by most measures. I talk to Mara about her summer plans. I have a conversation with one of Luca's flatmates about a film we'd both apparently seen. Valarr moves through the party seeming genuinely glad the people in it are there. I notice this from the periphery, which is where I've stationed myself relative to him, a comfortable social distance that requires no particular explanation and which I've been maintaining with the quiet precision of a thing I've practiced without knowing I was practicing it.
He comes over once. Just briefly, checking in, making sure everyone has what they need, the small and considerate attentiveness that is simply how he operates. He says hello, asks if I found the drinks, says something about the music that makes Luca laugh, and then he's pulled away by someone calling his name from the other side of the pool.
He hadn't particularly looked at me. Not in the way I’d.. not in any specific way. Just the hello of a host to a guest, easy and ordinary and requiring absolutely nothing of me that I couldn't give. I tell myself I wasn't expecting anything.
—— ——
I find Mara near the back of the garden, where someone has set up a speaker that is doing a slightly better job than the one by the drinks table, and she hands me her glass without asking and says, "you look like you need this more than I do," which is either very perceptive or very obvious and I'm not sure which I prefer. We stand there for a while. The afternoon has reached that particular hour of a good party where the initial politeness has dissolved and everyone has settled into the people they actually want to be talking to, conversations overlapping and drifting, and across the garden the pool glitters blue and flat in the late sun. "I'm going in," Mara says eventually, already pulling her hair up. "Come on, Serena." She nudges me with her elbow and I am not particularly in the mood for swimming, but I play the part and put my drink aside before taking my dress off and folding it over a lounger.
Mara moved quickly and Jace had already jumped in after her, making a few people laugh as others joined as well.
I stand at the top of the steps.
The party is spread out in front of me and my eyes move across, just taking in the general shape of things, the garden and the drinks table and the little clusters of conversation. They find him almost immediately.
Valarr, at the far end of the garden, a drink in his hand, talking to someone I don't recognis.. one of Matarys's friends, maybe, it doesn't matter. His head is tilted and the afternoon light is doing something unreasonable to the line of his jaw. He seems intrigued by whatever conversation he was having. He is not looking at the pool. He is not looking at me. Obviously. I wasn't checking. I was just looking at the garden in the general, ambient sense, the way you do when you're standing at the top of pool steps with the whole party laid out in front of you and nowhere specific to put your eyes. It is a completely ordinary thing that happened for approximately three seconds.
The water is cold for a moment and then it isn't, and the afternoon rearranges itself into something simpler, the sun sitting flat and warm on my face when I tip it back. It's good, actually. The kind of good that doesn't ask anything of you, that just holds you up and lets you float in it, and I let myself have it. I stop thinking about the white dress on the sun lounger. I stop thinking about three hours of getting ready and the particular way he'd looked at me, which is to say no particular way at all, and I just let the conversation wash over me and be in the water and be fine.
It lasts about twenty minutes. The conversation has drifted from Mara's summer plans to someone's terrible situationship to a play Luca apparently saw twice this week and has opinions about. He's mid-explanation, something about the third act, the way the director handled the ending, whether it was earned or not, when Mara tilts her sunglasses down and looks past him.
"Wait..“ By the way" she says. "Where's Aerion? Didn't he come with you?"
There's a beat. Small. Probably only I feel the specific shape of it.
"He left," I say.
"Oh." Mara tilts her sunglasses back up. "Already?"
"Yeah."
Another beat, smaller this time, which somehow makes it worse, the kind of silence that has a shape to it, that everyone is carefully not filling. I can see the question forming on Mara's face, the reasonable and well-meaning version of it, and I feel something tighten in my chest that I would very much prefer not to feel.
"He just left," I say, and my voice comes out easy enough, unbothered enough, which is a skill I have spent the better part of this year developing and have very mixed feelings about being good at. "I'm going to get a drink," I say, which is true, and I hoist myself out of the pool before Mara can open her mouth again. I find my towel on the sun lounger and wrap it around myself, pushing my wet hair back from my face. I don't look over at Valarr. I absolutely do not look over at Valarr. I stand at the drinks table and pour something with lime into a glass and look at the middle distance and breathe. I am fine.
———
The spin the bottle happens because of Jace.
This is not a surprise. Most things at group gatherings that have a slightly chaotic energy and lead to situations nobody fully planned for happen because of Jace, who operates at a frequency of social mischief that has its own internal logic even when the outcomes are unpredictable. He grabs a bottle from somewhere, genuinely, I don't know where it comes from, it appears in his hand like a small and unwelcome conjuring trick, and announces it with the particular confidence of knowing that half the group will object and that objecting will happen in exactly the way that leads to everyone sitting down anyway. We're on the far side of the pool by this point, the eight or so of us who've drifted together in the late afternoon. The light has gone golden and warm and lower than it was an hour ago, the string lights along the fence starting to mean something.
"No," Mara says.
"Yes," Jace says.
"We're adults," Mara says.
"So fucking what?,“ Jace says.
"That makes it even more fun to be honest." Luca confirms. And somehow, we're sitting in a rough circle on the pool surround with the bottle in the middle, and I am doing this because declining felt like it would require an explanation I didn't have, and because Isla sat down first and looked at me with an expression that said don't be weird about it, and because it's a party and it's summer and I'm twenty years old and it's spin the bottle and none of this means anything.
The circle has ten people in it. I’ve counted now. Cressida is one of them. She arrived about an hour ago, when she could have stayed home. Would have been fine by me. She's pretty in person in the specific and slightly irritating way she'd been pretty in my imagination, with dark and a red bikini and the easy, open manner of someone who is comfortable wherever she is. She's been near Valarr for most of the hour and unfortunately he did give her his attention.
The first few spins are fine, I barely pay attention to it, but try to laugh with the others so it wouldn’t be obvious that my mind was somewhere entirely different, but then the bottle lands on Valarr. Jace had spun it.
“Alright, man. Whoever this bottle lands on, you need to kiss.” Jace grinned, visibly satisfied with himself as he spins the bottle again and I barely have time to register what he said when the bottle stops and points clearly, across the circle at Cressida.
Oh hell no. I don’t know if it’s panic I feel or something else but I can suddenly feel my heart beating faster while some guy whistles and makes a comment I don’t even register. Cressida is looking at Valarr from across the circle with a smile that is doing something specific in its confidence, the smile of someone who does not find this outcome unfortunate in any way. Of course not, stupid b-
Valarr looks at her. He doesn't look embarrassed nor reluctant. I’m still trying to read his expression when she moves, crossing the small distance of the circle with ease and he meets her halfway, and it is brief and it is just a kiss, just the contact of a spin the bottle kiss which means nothing and happens at parties and is not a significant event in any universe-
Everyone cheers. Mara makes a sound. Luca whistles, once, low and appreciative. Jace says finally with the absolute conviction of someone who has been waiting for this outcome specifically.
I smile. I know I smile because I'm aware of doing it, the specific and conscious construction of an expression that I place on my face with the same deliberate precision I'd used putting on my makeup this morning, and I hold it there for the duration of the cheering and I don't let anything behind it reach the surface. I look at my drink. It's almost empty.
"I'm going to get another," I say, to no one in particular, to the air in front of me, and I stand up.
Isla looks at me, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm fine," I say, before she can say anything. "I just need a drink."
I head inside, quickly. Wanting to get away from them as far as possible.
The kitchen is cool after the garden, the air-conditioning doing it’s work, and the sound of the party recedes through the back door, becomes muffled and distant, and I stand in the kitchen for a moment and breathe in the way I've been not allowing myself to breathe for the past thirty seconds. My chest is doing something I'm not going to name.
It's fine. It's a kiss at a party game. It's nothing. She's a girl from a seminar who likes to touch his arm and dates fencers and has been standing in his orbit for an afternoon, and it was a spin the bottle kiss that lasted approximately two seconds, and everyone cheered because the whole group has been making it into a thing for weeks and the two seconds was the payoff for the weeks of it, and none of this-
"Hey."
I turn around.
Matarys is at the kitchen counter with a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other, in the middle of making himself a drink, looking at me with the particular expression he always has, that quick, slightly too-accurate read of a room that he carries around like something he was born with and occasionally forgets to conceal.
"Hey," I say.
"Hiding?" he asks with a grin.
"Just getting a drink," I say.
He glances at the glass I've brought inside with me, still in my hand, still with something in it.
"Sure," he says as I set the glass on the counter.
"Do you want something?" he asks, already reaching for a new cup.
I think about the spin the bottle circle.
I think about everyone cheering.
"Something strong," I say.
He looks at me for a half second.
"Okay," he says, simply, without making anything of it, which is the Matarys quality I have always appreciated most, the specific and practiced grace of someone who knows when not to ask follow-up questions.
He makes me something with vodka and something else and ice and a wedge of lime that he cuts. He slides it across the counter and picks up his own glass and doesn't make eye contact, thank god.
I drink. It's good. Strong in the clean, immediate way of something that gets where it's going without making a fuss about it.
"Thanks," I say.
"Party's good," he says, neutrally.
"Yeah," I say. "It is."
I look at the back door, the golden rectangle of the party visible through it, the sound of it coming through in warm, muffled waves.
And then I look back into the kitchen, toward the hallway, because I heard something.. footsteps on the stairs, maybe, or the sound of the hallway door, something that drew my eye in that direction and I see them.
Cressida, in the red bikini, holding her drink with two fingers and smiling at something, and Valarr a step behind her, and she's moving toward the stairs with the easy, purposeful energy of someone who knows where she's going, glancing back at him over her shoulder checking that he's following, which he is- They're going upstairs. The thought arrives before I've finished seeing it. They're going upstairs.
All of it floods in with the particular and devastating efficiency of a mind that has been primed by an entire afternoon of watching, of noticing, of cataloguing — the red bikini and the spin the bottle and finally and the cheering and the arm touching and the fencer ex and the three meaningful conversations and Mara saying she's lovely and Isla saying you deserve something good and all of it, all of it arriving at once in the kitchen with the cold glass in my hand and the vodka doing its clean and immediate work and the sight of them disappearing around the turn of the stairs- I stare at the counter.
"You okay?" Matarys says, from somewhere beside me, and his voice is quiet enough that it doesn't carry.
"Completely," I say. The word comes out easily. I am getting so good at this.
I pick up my drink and go back outside.
——-
I find a lounger at the side of the house.
Not the main pool area, not where the party is, there's a quieter stretch of the garden around the corner, past the big planter with the rosebush that's been threatening to bloom for weeks, where someone has left two old loungers at an angle that catches the late sun without requiring participation in anything. I've been here once before, I think, maybe last summer, maybe the summer before that, some warm evening when we had been outside long enough that everyone had spread to the comfortable perimeters of the garden.
I lie back.
The evening is warm and the party is audible from here but removed, a comfortable muffled distance, and the sky above me is going that specific colour it goes in early summer evenings, not blue exactly, something warmer and less definite, and I put my drink on the grass beside the lounger and take out my phone.
I scroll through nothing. Instagram first. A reflex, the way it always is, the mindless quality of the thumb moving without the mind engaged, and I go past a recipe and a sunset and an ad and then I stop scrolling without meaning to and just hold the phone and look at the screen without seeing it.
I think about the stairs.
I think about the red bikini and the glance back over the shoulder, the specific body language of someone extending an invitation, and I think about Valarr a step behind her, following, and I think about the way he'd looked at her during spin the bottle, not reluctant, not embarrassed, not any of the things he could have looked,
I put the phone face down on my stomach.
Above me, a bird crosses the pale evening sky from one side to the other and disappears over the roof of the house.
I think about the kitchen last October, late, just the two of us, the specific quality of sitting with someone in a warm room after everyone else has gone home and finding that you don't want to be the one who leaves first. I think about a hallway kiss.
I think about it won't happen again.
He'd meant it. I'd believed him.
And he'd gone upstairs with a girl in a red bikini, which he is allowed to do, which is the ordinary and straightforward action of a person who is not in a relationship and who has met someone who is interested in him and who has no obligation to anyone, least of all me, least of all a woman sitting on a sun lounger at the side of his garden trying to make sense of a feeling she has no right to have. I pick my phone back up. Lock screen. Unlock. Home screen. Nothing new.
I put it down again. I think about the three hours this morning. The careful progression of the shower and the lotion and the razor and the mirror, the white dress pulled from the back of the wardrobe, the forty-five minutes on the hair. I think about myself at the bathroom mirror this morning with the mascara brush and the careful and methodical construction of looking like I hadn't tried, and I think about Valarr saying hello at the start of the party with the easy warmth of a host speaking to a familiar guest, and I think about him not looking at me in any particular way. Maybe Isla is right.
Isla, who has been watching this longer than I have and with considerably more objectivity, who said once, just once, in a very quiet voice after a night out in March: you know, don't you, that what you feel about him isn't nothing.
I hadn't answered her. I'd changed the subject. I know. That's the thing. Sitting here on a sun lounger at the side of Valarr's garden with the evening going warm around me and the party in the distance and the image of a red bikini on a staircase sitting in my chest like something lodged, I know. I have known for long enough that not knowing has stopped being a position I can credibly hold. I just don't know what to do with knowing. I don't have the vocabulary for it yet. Or I have the vocabulary but not the right to use it, because the vocabulary comes attached to a set of conditions that my actual life, the one with my boyfriend, does not currently meet. I reach for my drink. The ice has mostly melted, the vodka diluted to something milder, and I drink it anyway and look at the evening sky and listen to the muffled sound of other people having a good time twenty metres away and I stay very quiet inside myself, which is harder than it sounds and which I've been doing, at varying levels of success, for longer than I want to count.
My phone lights up.
Isla.
where did you go?? come back we're doing the thing with the cups
I look at the message and respond: two mins.
I put the phone on my stomach.
I give myself two more minutes of the quiet and the evening and the particular private company of a feeling I can't name out loud yet, and then I'm going to stand up and go back to the party and be a person at a summer party having a good time, which is what I am and what I'm going to continue to be, and none of this is going to be visible on my face by the time I get there.
_____
The garden is almost empty. The string lights are still on, casting everything in that warm amber that seemed anticipatory at five o'clock and now feels like an afterthought, the last evidence of an event that has mostly concluded. Someone has stacked the chairs at the far end. The pool is still lit from below, that pale blue, the water completely still now after a day of being disturbed.
There are two people left out here, Luca and Jace, by the gate, in the middle of what sounds like an argument about something trivial and ongoing, the kind of conversation that will continue into the cab home and possibly beyond. They're pulling jackets on, gathering things. Not noticing me.
I cross toward the far end of the garden, the quiet end, past the rosebush that never quite bloomed, and I stand for a moment near the fence with my bag on my shoulder and the warm night air around me and I breathe. The evening smells like chlorine and summer.
I should go home. I should call a cab or start walking or message Isla to see if she's still nearby, and I should go home and take off the stupid white dress that didn't apparently accomplish whatever I was hoping it would accomplish and I should have a glass of water and go to sleep and wake up tomorrow and be a person who has their feelings in an order that makes sense.
I'm reaching for my phone when I hear footsteps.
"Hey."
I turn. Valarr is crossing the garden toward me, unhurried, in the white shirt from earlier.. he's done up one of the buttons at some point, I notice, and then I notice that I've noticed and I go back to looking at his face which is doing its usual careful and unreadable thing except with an overlay of slight surprise, the expression of someone who didn't know I was still here.
"You're still here," he says.
"I was helping Matarys clean up" I say.
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know. I wanted to."
He comes to stand a few feet away, looking out at the garden and the string lights catch the line of his jaw and the dark of his eyes and I look at the fence instead.
"Do you need a lift?" he asks. "I can drive you if-"
"I'm fine," I say.
"It's late," he says.
"I'm fine," I say again, and there's something in my voice that makes him pause, a slight hardening of it, a quality that has nothing to do with being fine and everything to do with not wanting to be looked at too carefully right now.
He looks at me anyway. "What's wrong?" he asks.
"Nothing's wrong."
"Serena-"
"Nothing is wrong," I say, and the words come out with more force than I intended, clipped at the edges, and I hear myself and I know I should stop talking, should say I'm tired, I'll get a cab, goodnight, should do any of the many available things that are not what I'm apparently about to do. I don't do any of them.
"I'm fine," I say, for the third time, which is at least two times too many.
He's still looking at me. Patient. Quiet. That particular and infuriating steadiness of his, just waiting, because he knows, he's always known, that if you give me enough silence I'll fill it with the thing I was trying not to say.
"Did you have a good time?" I ask, and the words come out with a brightness that doesn't belong on them, a veneer of casual interest stretched too thin over something else entirely. "With Cressida?" There it is. The name in my own mouth, finally, after an entire afternoon of not saying it.
Something shifts in his expression. "I-"
"Because she seemed great," I say. "Very-" I gesture with my free hand, a vague and unspecific gesture that is trying to contain a great deal. "Into you. Obviously. And you followed her upstairs, which-" I stop. "Which is great. It's your party, it's your house. That's great."
"Nothing happened," he says.
"I didn't ask," I say.
"You kind of asked," he says.
"I was making an observation. I'm allowed to observe things."
"What are you do-"
"I'm not doing anything," I say. "I'm standing here. I was leaving, actually, and then you came over and asked if I needed a lift, which-" I stop again, and I can feel it now, the thing that's been sitting in my chest all day pulling toward the surface with the specific and unstoppable momentum of something that has been compressed for too long and has run out of patience. "You don't have to explain anything to me. We're not- there's nothing - you can do whatever you want with whoever you want, that's completely fine-"
"Serena," he says.
"I'm just saying it's fine," I say, louder than I meant to. "It's completely fine. You kissed her in front of everyone and everyone cheered and it was all very…" I stop. My voice has done something I didn't authorise. I redirect. "And it's fine. It's just.. you have a lot of nerve, is what it is."
He blinks. "I have a lot of nerve," he repeats.
"Yes."
"For what, specifically?"
"For-" I look at him. I look at the fence. I look at my hands, one of which is holding my phone and one of which is apparently going to start gesturing because my body needs somewhere to put all of this. "For kissing me. Back in- in that damn hallway. At that party. You had absolutely no right to do that."
He's very still. "Okay," he says.
"Because now I-" I stop. "Now I can't-" I stop again. "My brain has been doing things it wasn't doing before and it's your fault. Specifically. I had everything in a perfectly manageable arrangement and then you kissed me in a hallway and now I'm standing in your garden at the end of your party watching you with some girl and I feel like I'm actually losing my mind, and that is your fault."
"You want to talk about fault?" he says, and something has shifted in his voice, a new edge to it, not the careful measured version of him. "Let's talk about fault."
I go still and look at him confused.
"You walked into that party tonight," he says, "in that dress." He says it like the dress is evidence of something. Like it's a thing that was done to him. "And I saw you come through the gate and I had to-" He stops. His jaw tightens. "I had to turn around and pretend I was looking at something else. Because the alternative was standing there staring at you like an idiot in front of everyone I know, and I've had a lot of practice at not doing that, but it doesn't actually get easier. For the record."
I don't say anything.
"And then the pool," he says, and the words come out with a roughness that wasn't there before, the specific friction of something being said that he has not planned to say. "You walked past me to get in and I lost the entire thread of a conversation mid-sentence. Just- gone. Because you looked…" He stops himself. Looks at the fence. Looks back at me. "You looked the way you always look and I am so tired of having nowhere to put that."
"Valarr-"
"I'm not finished," he says.
My mouth closes.
"I have watched you with Aerion," he says, and the name lands differently from everything else, drops into the space between us with a weight that changes the air. "For a whole year. Every time he put his hand on your back. Every time you left somewhere together and I watched you go and just.. stood there. Every time you said his name in a room I was in, I heard it land somewhere it had no business landing and I dealt with it." His voice has tightened, not loud, almost the opposite of loud, the particular and dangerous quiet of someone saying a true thing they have been not saying for a very long time. "I was fine about it. I was correct about it. I never said a word. Do you understand how many times I did not say a word?"
"I didn't know-"
"No," he says. "You didn't. Because I was very careful about it. Because the situation was what it was and you were happy, or you seemed happy, and that was-" He exhales. Something moves through his expression that I don't have a name for. "That was what I kept telling myself. That you were happy. That it was enough just to be around you. That I could keep doing this indefinitely, keep showing up and being your friend and being fine and actually being nowhere near fine, and at some point it would presumably stop feeling like this."
"And did it?" I say, very quietly.
He looks at me. "No," he says. "It just kept going. Every time I thought I'd got some distance on it, you'd say something or look at me a certain way and I was right back at the beginning." Something flashes in his expression, frustration and honesty in equal measure. "Do you think I just woke up one morning and decided to fall for my cousins girlfriend? You have no idea what it's been like. Watching you. Trying to move on. Telling myself to move on. Going on three dates I had no real interest in going on because maybe if I just tried hard enough it would stop being you." He shakes his head once, a short, disbelieving motion, directed mostly at himself. "It didn't stop being you."
I look at the pool, unable to me the storm in his eyes. "If you've been feeling all of that," I say, and my voice comes out unsteady in a way I can't help, "then you should have said something. Long before now. You should have just-" I look back at him. "You should have been honest with me."
"You were with Aerion," he says.
"So?"
"So I'm not that person," he says, flatly, like this is obvious. "I don't say things like that to people who are with someone else. I don't- it's not who I am."
"And the hallway?" I say. "At that party. That was who you are?"
The question sits in the air. He looks at me for a long moment and something shifts, gives way, the last of the management dropping off his expression entirely.
"I was so tired of being sensible about it," he says. "You were standing there looking at me the way you were looking at me and I just-" He stops. "I thought, just once. One moment. And then I'd let it go."
"And did you?" I say. "Let it go."
"No," he says. "I think you know I didn't."
I look at him, at the line of his shoulders in the white shirt and the garden light doing something to the angles of his face and the way he's looking at me, that direct and entirely unmanaged way, and something in my chest that has been held in careful compression for a very long time simply gives in.
"You're an idiot, Valarr Targaryen" I say.
"I know," he says.
"A whole fucking year?"
"I.. even before that. Ever since I first saw you, truthfully."
I can’t think properly. It’s like every thought I’ve ever had has vanished and all that remains is his words in my ears.
"You absolute-"
I don't finish the sentence. I don't finish it because the distance between us has been closing with gravity rather than choice, and then his hand finds my jaw and mine finds the front of his shirt and the last few inches disappear.
He kisses me like he means it. Not tentative, nothing of the hallway about it, this is the version that has been behind all of that. His other hand finds my waist and pulls me in and I grip his shirt tighter and feel him exhale against my mouth, a short rough sound, the specific release of someone who has been holding their breath for a very long time and has finally, finally been allowed to stop. I kiss him back. God, I kiss him back. With every fiber of my being am I kissing this man right here, never wanting to let go. His lips against mine a feeling I’d never forget and have been dreaming about since our first kiss. Since the first taste of his lips.
He pulls back just enough to breathe. His forehead drops to mine. His hand is still at my jaw, his thumb moving slowly along the line of it, and he's looking at me from an inch away with that expression, the real one, no performance anywhere in it, and the warmth of him is everywhere, through the dress and against my palms and in the specific and settling quality of being held by someone who has wanted to for a very long time.
"I should have said something sooner," he says, low.
