Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x Stark reader
Word Count: 8.7k
Synopsis: For Prince Valarr's namesday, all the ladies of the noble houses gather.
The first thing you learned of Southron courts was that they smelled nothing like winter.
Winter was honest.
Winter smelled of pine boughs split beneath the axe, of damp wool steaming by the fire, of leather, horse, snow, and cold iron. It smelled of hounds asleep beneath the tables, of rushes, old stone, and smoke caught deep in the beams of ancient halls. It smelled of the godswood after dark, when the red leaves whispered and the pools went black as glass.
King’s Landing smelled of oranges and lamp oil.
It smelled of roses bruised beneath slippered feet, of beeswax and silk, of sweetwine poured into golden cups by hands that had never gone numb from frost. It smelled, too, of the sea beyond the walls, sharp and briny beneath the perfume, and of too many bodies gathered too close in rooms built to glitter rather than breathe.
You had been in the city less than three days and already you missed the clean cruelty of northern air.
“Do try not to look as though you’ve come south to attend a funeral,” your brother murmured beside you, not troubling to lower his voice. “At least not until after the feasting.”
You did not look at him. “I am looking exactly as pleased as I feel.”
“A dangerous amount of honesty for court.”
Rickon Stark—your elder brother by four years, long-limbed, broad-shouldered, with the sober grey eyes of your father and none of his patience—suppressed the beginning of a grin into his cup. “Father will scold you if he sees.”
“Father has spent the last hour discussing grain levies and road watch with three men who smile with all their teeth and none of their eyes. He has no attention to spare for me.”
“Then the prince will have the misfortune of it instead.”
At that, you turned your head.
The great hall of the Red Keep blazed with late sunlight and a thousand candles, though the day had not yet dimmed enough to require half so many. Gold ran everywhere. Gold chased the edges of pillars and the rims of cups, flashed on girdles and clasps and chains, shimmered in the cloth-of-gold banners hanging from the rafters. Red silk streamed between the dragon-carved beams overhead. Minstrels in crimson and black sat upon a raised gallery and played something quick and sweet beneath the thunder of voices.
At the center of it all, as though the whole hall had been built merely to throw him into relief, stood Prince Valarr Targaryen.
He was not alone. He had not been alone once that you had seen since your family entered the city gates.
Women gathered near him the way moths gathered near flame—not because the flame called, but because it burned and they could not help themselves. Daughters of great southern houses, all bright as enamel. Hightowers in sea-grey velvet and moonstone nets. Tyrell roses in green silk soft as spring leaves. A daughter of House Redwyne in burgundy samite poured over a body made to haunt songs. Ladies from the Reach, the Stormlands, Dorne. Golden-haired maidens and dark-haired beauties, highborn girls with long throats and careful smiles, women whose mothers had plainly spent half their lives teaching them how to lower their lashes and lift their chins to best advantage.
They circled him in laughing knots.
They offered him wine. They offered him jests. They offered him glances from beneath their lashes and the full warmth of their mouths and all the artful innocence that noble daughters learned before they ever bled. One touched his sleeve as she spoke. Another leaned closer than she ought. Another laughed at something he had not, so far as you could tell, intended to be particularly amusing.
Prince Valarr bore it with remarkable grace.
He was younger than you had expected and more handsome than was fair.
That, you admitted reluctantly.
The songs had crossed the kingsroad ahead of him, as songs always did. They had called him bright and brave and gallant, named him promising, clever, courteous, dragon-proud, every praise that clung to a prince who had reached manhood with all his limbs, all his beauty, and none of the ruin that so often flowered in royal houses. Some had mentioned his eyes, mismatched—one dark, one pale—and the silver streak in his black hair like moonlight caught in a raven’s wing. Some had said women lost sense when he smiled.
Songs lied as often as courtiers breathed.
But this time, they had not lied enough.
He was dressed simply by the standards of the court around him, which meant only that his doublet was black velvet instead of cloth-of-gold, cut so well it did not need embroidery to declare its richness, and fastened at throat and cuffs with rubies dark as heartsblood. A fine chain rested over his breast. There was something restrained in him that made the display around him feel noisier by contrast.
And yes—he smiled.
Not constantly. That was part of the trouble.
He smiled as though he bestowed it rather than wore it, briefly and with purpose, and people turned toward it at once as flowers did toward sun. Even at a distance, even half-buried beneath ladies and lords alike, you could see the ease of him, the polish, the princely patience that made every girl in the hall think herself noticed.
“Do not stare,” Rickon said.
“I am observing.”
“Like a hunter observes its prey?”
You moved your eyes back to your cup. “I was only wondering whether any of those girls can still breathe under all that lace.”
Rickon laughed softly into his wine.
Your father’s voice cut through the din behind you. “There you are.”
You turned. Lord Stark stood with one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, grey threaded through his dark beard, the lines around his mouth deeper than they had been last winter. Southern heat did him no favors. It did none of you any favors. Yet even beneath the banners of another house, in a hall built for dragonkings and their line, your father seemed made of sterner stone than all of them.
“Prince Baelor wishes a word with me after the first course,” he said. “Rickon, you will attend me. And you—”
His gaze settled on you.
You knew that look. It meant he had already thought three steps ahead and found the world inconvenient.
“You will be courteous.”
You widened your eyes with perfect innocence. “Am I ever anything else?”
Rickon made a sound that might have been a cough, if coughs were given to mockery.
Your father ignored him. “This feast is held in honor of the young prince’s namesday and his coming of age besides. There will be many eyes upon the northern party. We are guests of the crown.”
“I know my duty.”
“You know your temper.” His mouth twitched, nearly a smile, gone again in the space of a breath. “Do not let one undo the other.”
Before you could answer, your brother straightened a little and said, very blandly, “Father, I believe Lady Rowan has been attempting to set our sister beside every marriageable heir in the hall since we arrived.”
Your father looked at you.
You looked at Rickon.
Rickon drank.
“Lady Rowan means well,” your father said, which was the sort of thing men said when women were being intolerable in ways they did not intend to interfere with.
“Lady Rowan,” you said evenly, “has the soul of a horse trader.”
“She has daughters,” he replied.
“As yet, so do you.”
That did it. Rickon nearly choked. Your father’s eyes sharpened, though there was that dangerous glint in them that meant amusement was fighting for its life beneath propriety.
“You are not a horse,” he said.
“No. I am much more difficult.”
His hand came briefly to the back of your neck, rough and warm, squeezing once. “That is what worries me.”
Then he and Rickon were gone, vanishing into the current of noble bodies flowing between trestle tables and servants with silver platters.
You stood alone for all of half a minute before Lady Rowan descended.
She was not truly your lady, of course—only one of the queen’s many gentlewomen, attached to the household hosting the northern party and apparently convinced by your age, your face, and your inconveniently unmarried state that you were an unfinished piece of work placed in her hands by the gods themselves.
“My dear,” she breathed, appearing at your elbow in a cloud of jasmine and blue silk. “There you are. You cannot stand alone looking so severe. Men mistake that for wit and become frightened.”
“Then they are wise men.”
“Men are very rarely wise where a pretty woman is concerned. Come.”
“I would rather not.”
“You have no idea what you would rather,” Lady Rowan said, which was her answer to most forms of resistance. “Lord Tarly’s nephew has been asking after you, and there is a Florent boy with excellent prospects, and the younger son of—”
“Lady Rowan.”
She paused.
You smiled at her. It was the smile your septa used to call troublesome; soft enough to pass for sweetness to those who did not know you, edged enough to warn those who did.
“I have not come south to marry a Florent boy.”
Her brows lifted. “No?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you have come south to snare larger game.”
You laughed. You could not help it.
Lady Rowan’s gaze sharpened as though she had learned more from that than from any spoken answer.
“Oh,” she said softly. “Have you?”
“No.”
“You need not be coy with me.”
“I am not coy. I am bored.”
“By the prince?”
You looked back toward the center of the hall because it was easier than laughing in her face.
Prince Valarr had shifted a few paces. A lady in green was saying something to him with deep seriousness and an even deeper neckline. He listened with his head inclined, all perfect attention, though from the distant stillness of his face you guessed his thoughts were elsewhere.
One of the kingsguard stood behind him, bright in white enameled scales. Another young lord lingered at his shoulder—a cousin perhaps, or close companion—and murmured something that won a brief smile.
“Not by the prince,” you said after a moment. “By women who think a man’s rank is enough to make him interesting.”
Lady Rowan’s painted mouth opened a little.
Then, very slowly, she smiled.
“Be careful,” she said. “That sort of talk becomes you too well.”
Before you could ask what precisely she meant, a burst of laughter rose near the prince, sharp and carrying. One of the Tyrell cousins—Margaery? Meredyth? There were too many roses to keep count—had dropped her fan and contrived to do so directly at Prince Valarr’s feet.
He bent to retrieve it with all a prince’s courtesy.
Half the hall watched.
When he straightened, fan in hand, his eyes lifted over the girl’s shoulder.
And met yours.
It was an accident. It must have been.
There were too many bodies between you for it to be anything else. Yet the strange thing was not that he looked, but that he did not look away.
Even across the width of the hall, even through the bright blur of candles and banners and women straining subtly to turn his face back toward theirs, there was no mistaking the directness of it.
One eye dark as river mud under moonlight. One startling pale.
You felt Lady Rowan go still beside you.
Then the prince smiled.
Not the smile he had been scattering through the room like coins. This one was smaller. Sharper. As though he had found something unexpectedly amusing.
He handed back the fan without glancing at its owner and said something that made the surrounding ladies laugh again.
But his eyes lingered on you one beat longer than they should have.
Then he turned away.
“Oh,” Lady Rowan whispered, and all at once she sounded prayerful.
You took a slow sip of wine.
“I hate that sound.”
“My dear girl,” Lady Rowan said, seizing your arm with a grip far stronger than such a perfumed creature ought to possess. “Whatever you do, do not ruin this by opening your mouth too soon.”
You looked at her in disbelief. “You think I did that on purpose?”
“I think,” she said with great meaning, “that purpose has very little to do with whether a prince becomes interested.”
You smiled over the rim of your cup.
If only she knew.
//
You had learned the trick two years earlier in Winterfell, listening unseen from the gallery above the great hall while your brother and his friends talked below over ale and boar.
They had thought themselves alone.
That was often when men were most educational.
“Never chase,” one of them had said, sprawled in your father’s chair as boys did before they understood what weight lay in seats not yet theirs. “If you chase, you are done before you begin.”
“You speak as though girls are quarry.”
“They are, if they’re worth catching.”
Your brother had snorted. “And how, then, does this great wisdom advise a man to catch such dangerous game?”
The answer had come easy. Certain. Young.
“By making her think she has caught you.”
You had remembered that.
Not because it was kind. Not because it was noble. But because it was true.
Men—especially handsome men, praised men, men born to be looked at and obeyed—grew lazy beneath pursuit. They expected eagerness. They expected blushes, deference, breathless attention. Expected girls to lean forward when they entered a room, expected them to brighten like candles brought near flame. It was not always vanity, though vanity was there. More often it was habit. The world had taught such men that interest would come to them like tide to shore.
Take that away, and they felt the absence like a touch.
Worse, they began to wonder.
Prince Valarr had spent the whole of his namesday feast surrounded by women who wanted precisely what he represented. The prince himself, perhaps, if they were foolish or lucky enough to believe they could claim him. But certainly the nearness to a crown. Certainly the songs. Certainly the envy of other women. Certainly sons with silver in their blood and daughters with dragon blood in their veins.
And then there was you.
A daughter of the North in dark grey silk with no wish to be there at all, who had looked at him once as one might look upon a fine horse or an interesting sword and then returned her attention to her wine.
He had noticed.
Men like him always did.
But noticing was not the same as falling.
For that, patience was needed.
Patience, and timing, and the wit not to let satisfaction show on your face.
The truth—cold and shameful and far more dangerous than the little game unfolding across the hall—was that you had not come south indifferent to Prince Valarr at all.
You had come south prepared to hate him.
You hated what he was.
Not him as a man, not yet, for you did not know him, but the shape of his existence. The promise of it. The ease with which men had begun using his name in your hearing before you had even seen his face.
A prince. Of age. Unwed. The realm watching.
Your father had not said it. Your brother had not said it. Neither would have dishonored you by speaking so bluntly of your worth in marriage coin. But you had seen it in the careful eyes of women on the road south, in the way messages from court had grown more frequent, in the overbright interest Lady Rowan took in your gowns and your hair and whether you smiled enough.
The North had daughters. The crown had sons.
Sooner or later, someone would think the distance between those truths worth bridging.
And you—who had grown up under hard skies and old gods, who had spent your girlhood running the ramparts with frost in your lashes and a knife in your boot, who had never once asked to be lovely and had been cursed with it besides—you were expected to stand prettily beneath the gaze of strangers and let them weigh what use might be made of you.
So yes.
You had looked at the prince and decided, before he ever noticed you, that if Southron courts meant to make sport of your future, then you would have your sport in return.
If the prince wanted to look, you would let him look.
If he wanted to wonder, you would feed the wondering.
And if he came too near, then perhaps you would remind him that northern girls were not roses to be plucked for banners and beds.
It was a childish plan.
That should have warned you of the danger.
The most ruinous things often began with a woman thinking herself in control.
//
The feast lengthened.
Courses came and went. Spiced lamprey. Capons glazed in honey and mustard. Pigeons baked in pastry. Platters of trout in cream with almonds, eels in herbs, saffron rice, buttered leeks, trenchers soaked in rich gravies. Musicians shifted from harp to pipes to fiddle. Cups emptied and filled. The hall grew louder with each new serving, the laughter less careful, the glances more daring.
The prince danced with six women before the second hour passed.
You counted without meaning to.
Lady Rowan had maneuvered you into the line for the dancing once, but you escaped by claiming a headache and sacrificing one smile to a pompous Reach knight whose name you forgot before he finished bowing. After that, you kept mostly to the edges, speaking when spoken to, allowing yourself to be admired without encouraging admiration too far. It was a skill northern girls learned for survival as much as vanity; how to seem open while giving nothing away.
Twice you felt the prince’s gaze on you and did not turn.
The third time you turned because not turning would have been too deliberate.
He was seated now upon the low dais reserved for the royal line, though not yet in the king’s chair. A lady from the Stormlands occupied the place at his right, another from Oldtown at his left. He listened to the first while the second watched him watching the hall.
You were not close enough to hear whatever was said.
Yet when your eyes found his, one dark brow moved very slightly.
A question.
Amusement again, perhaps. Or challenge.
You looked at him as you might have looked at snowfall beginning over the outer walls of Winterfell: something visible, perhaps even briefly lovely, but of no particular personal concern.
Then you turned to answer some trivial remark from Lady Rowan.
A moment later, she whispered, not quite beneath her breath, “Seven save me, he is coming here.”
You nearly laughed aloud.
But when you looked, he was.
Not at once, not in some dramatic crossing of the hall fit for songs. That would have been too obvious, too prince-like in the wrong way. Instead, he rose when a cousin approached with some jest, answered, excused himself with a courtesy no one could fault, and drifted through knots of lords and ladies as though the path had made itself beneath his feet.
Everywhere he passed, people moved.
He paused twice on the way to exchange words with men older than himself. He greeted Lady Meredyth Tyrell with a bow that won a blush. He laid two fingers briefly against a knight’s arm in familiar thanks. It was beautifully done, all of it. Unhurried. Natural.
Calculated enough that only someone watching for it would know his course had never altered.
Lady Rowan’s nails bit into your sleeve. “Smile.”
“I am smiling.”
“That expression suggests you are about to witness a hanging.”
“In a way, perhaps I am.”
“My dear—”
“Lady Rowan.”
The voice was low and warm, nearer than it had any right to be already.
You turned.
Up close, Prince Valarr was worse.
That was the only word for it.
At a distance, beauty could be dismissed as proportion, light, an accident of birth flattered by candles. Up close, it became specific. A mouth too well-shaped for peace. The silver in his hair not bright but soft, lying like a drawn blade through black silk. Lashes dark enough to cast shadows against high cheekbones. A faint line at the corner of his mouth, as though he smiled more with one side than the other when truly amused.
And the eyes.
The songs had not known what to do with them.
One was a deep brown so dark it nearly passed for black indoors. The other was the pale grey-lilac peculiar to old Valyria in certain lines, ghost-bright beneath the hall’s golden light. Strange eyes. Unsettling eyes. Eyes that made it difficult to think of anything else once you had seen them.
Lady Rowan dropped into a curtsy deep enough to crack her bones. “My prince.”
He acknowledged her with an inclination of his head that was gracious without being intimate. Then his gaze came to you.
“My lady Stark,” he said.
There was the faintest pause before your house, too slight for most ears. Not hesitation. Recognition.
He knew exactly who you were.
You curtsied because not doing so would have been idiocy. “My prince.”
When you rose, his smile had changed.
Not broadened. Deepened.
“I have not had the honor,” he said, “though you have been in my hall all evening.”
Your hall, you thought, because princes always said things like that without noticing. But aloud you said only, “It is a very crowded hall.”
“A failing I shall correct next year.”
Lady Rowan made a delighted little noise.
You said, “Would you dismiss half your guests, then?”
“If that half were tedious enough, yes.”
It came so promptly that you looked at him properly then, and saw laughter banked in the corner of his mouth.
Behind him, one of the white cloaks had gone very still. The prince’s companion—his cousin, perhaps—stood several paces off with the long-suffering look of a man accustomed to royal whims and quietly entertained by them.
Lady Rowan all but glowed. “His Grace jests.”
“Only because truth is so poorly received at feasts.” Prince Valarr’s gaze remained on you. “Will you walk with me, my lady?”
Lady Rowan inhaled.
You knew every eye within twenty feet would be on you already.
To refuse a prince before witnesses was not clever. To accept too readily was worse.
So you let one heartbeat pass, then another, as though considering whether the request was worth the trouble it would bring.
Only then did you incline your head.
“If it please you, my prince.”
“It would not have been asked otherwise.”
He offered his arm.
You laid your fingers lightly upon black velvet and let him lead you away from Lady Rowan, whose expression as you left was one of such devout triumph it nearly ruined your composure.
The hall seemed louder once you were within it. Or perhaps it only felt that way because his nearness made everything else sharper by contrast. You were aware of the heat of his arm beneath your hand. Aware too of the attention following you both like the drag of silk.
He did not speak until you reached one of the long windows overlooking Blackwater Bay, where the air slipping in was cooler and less crowded with perfume.
Below, the sea threw back the last red of sunset.
“You do not look pleased,” he said.
You turned your head. “Must I?”
“No.” His mouth curved. “That is why I asked you rather than one of the others.”
You laughed once, softly, because you could not help it. “And which of the others would those be?”
“The ladies who have spent all evening pretending not to arrange themselves directly in my path.”
“That narrows the field very little.”
“It narrows it enough.”
He was close enough that you could see the fine white scar half-hidden just under his jaw, no wider than a thread. An old injury. A boyhood fall, perhaps, or a training mishap. It humanized him in a way nothing else had yet.
“You are honest,” he said after a moment.
“Is that meant as praise or warning?”
“A discovery.”
“I doubt I am so novel.”
“In this hall?” He glanced toward the dancers. “Very.”
His tone was light, but there was watchfulness beneath it now. The same watchfulness you had seen when he first looked across the room and found you not already smiling at him.
He was curious.
Good, you thought.
That was how it began.
And yet the trouble with setting traps was that one had to stand near enough to spring them.
“What is it you wish to discover, my prince?” you asked. “Whether northern women are made of ice?”
“Are they?”
“Only in weather fit to preserve them.”
That won you the smile you had seen from across the hall—the smaller one, sharper at one corner.
“No,” he said. “I wished to discover why you have looked at me all evening as though I were a tapestry you are not certain matches the room.”
That startled you enough that you answered before caution could intervene.
“I have not looked at you all evening.”
“Not constantly,” he agreed. “That would have ruined the effect.”
Heat touched the back of your neck.
So. He was not merely handsome. He was quick.
“I did not know I was creating an effect.”
“Did you not?”
You met his eyes, then, and there it was between you at last; not mere rank, not idle conversation, but the first clean click of blades crossing.
The prince had noticed the game.
Worse, he had named it.
“It may disappoint you, my prince,” you said, “to learn that not every woman in your hall came south to catch your eye.”
“It may disappoint you, my lady, to learn that I did not say they had.”
For one ridiculous moment you had no answer.
He watched you have none and seemed, infuriatingly, to enjoy it.
Then he inclined his head toward the window. “You are from Winterfell.”
A statement, not question.
“I am.”
“And yet you came south for my namesday feast.”
“My father came south to pay respect to the crown. I was merely carried along with the baggage.”
His gaze flicked over your face, perhaps measuring whether you mocked yourself or the court.
“An unflattering comparison.”
“To the baggage? It is at least handled with purpose.”
That drew a quiet laugh.
“You do not like King’s Landing.”
“No.”
“Nor my feast.”
“No.”
“Nor me.”
There it was.
Simple as that.
Not flirtation now, exactly. Not even offense. Curiosity sharpened almost to sincerity.
You could have lied. A lady taught for marriage would have lied. She would have softened it with deference, made of her dislike a misunderstanding that invited correction.
Instead you said, “I do not know you.”
“No. But you have decided something nevertheless.”
His voice had gone quieter. The noise of the hall receded strangely around you, as though the window recess had become its own chamber.
You did not want to answer him.
That should have been warning enough that the answer mattered.
“Perhaps,” you said.
He studied you. “And have I any chance at all of defending myself?”
That, absurdly, was what undid you—not his looks, not his title, not the attention of half the hall. It was the courtesy of the question. The implication that your judgment mattered enough to challenge, not simply dismiss.
You looked away first.
“The prince asks as though he stands accused.”
“Do I?”
“A little.”
“Then I should like to know the charge.”
You turned back slowly. “Being exactly what everyone wants you to be.”
For the first time that evening, he did not answer at once.
The sea flashed red-gold below.
From the hall came the opening notes of a new dance, slower this time.
Prince Valarr’s face had stilled.
“That,” he said at last, “is a curious thing to be condemned for.”
“Is it?”
“You tell me.”
You should have stepped back then. You should have laughed, let the moment dissolve, returned him to the safety of charming nonsense. Instead, you said what was true.
“I mistrust men who are too easily admired.”
His expression changed.
Not much. A lesser man’s might have hardened or brightened with insult or eagerness. Prince Valarr’s only grew more intent, as though you had, against all advice and good sense, become more interesting precisely because you had said the wrong thing.
“Then perhaps,” he said softly, “you ought to spend enough time with me to be disappointed.”
You stared at him.
He held your gaze with princely calm, though a smile ghosted again at the edge of his mouth.
It was not the words. Not really. Men had said bolder things with much less cause.
It was that he had taken your suspicion and turned it, not into offense, but invitation.
You hated how deft that was.
You hated more that it pleased you.
“Do you say such things to all the girls who neglect to fawn over you?”
“No.”
“How am I to believe that?”
“You are not,” he said. “Not yet.”
Before you could shape a reply to that, a herald’s voice rang through the hall, summoning the court’s attention. Some formal announcement regarding gifts and songs and a toast to the prince. Princr Valarr glanced toward the dais, duty pulling visibly at him.
He looked back to you with something perilously like regret.
“I am called.”
“As princes often are.”
“Yes.” His gaze lingered. “And you?”
“I am not called by anyone.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
“Then you are learning disappointment early.”
Something flashed in his pale eye—a laugh, perhaps, or challenge renewed.
Then he bowed over your hand.
Not the perfunctory brush many men gave. Not a grand performance for watchers. A real courtly bow, deep enough that the silver in his hair caught candlelight, his fingers steady against yours. His lips did not touch your skin, but the nearness of warmth there was worse somehow than contact would have been.
When he straightened, his voice was low enough for only you to hear.
“You are lying to me, my lady Stark.”
Your pulse jumped once, hard.
“About what?”
“About having no interest in princes.”
Then he left you standing by the window with the sea beneath and the hall roaring back into being all around you.
//
He was wrong.
That was the trouble.
He was wrong, and yet not wrong enough.
You had no interest in princes.
You had every interest in victory.
But in the hours that followed, as the feast gave way to revelry and revelry to the looser, sweeter disorder of night in a rich court, you found yourself thinking not of triumph but of his expression when you accused him of being easily admired.
Not wounded.
Not angry.
Merely… understood, perhaps, in some unwelcome place beneath the polish.
That annoyed you almost as much as his face.
By the time the moon stood over the bay, you had danced twice—once with a young Mallister who spoke earnestly of hawks, once with a Tarly so grave you feared he might apologize to your slippers for stepping near them. You had escaped Lady Rowan three more times. Your father and brother were deep among northern bannermen and certain grave lords of the Vale. Courtiers had begun to turn from spectacle to intrigue in smaller knots. Lovers slipped onto terraces. Drunk knights sang badly.
And still, whenever you let your attention wander, it found the young prince.
Sometimes he was at the center of a circle, enduring flattery with elegant restraint. Sometimes in quiet conference with older men. Once, astonishingly, he knelt beside a page of no more than seven who had dropped a tray of goblets and was weeping in terror, and said something that set the boy blinking and laughing through his tears. Another time you saw him decline a too-bold invitation from a lady of the Reach so gently that she smiled as though she had been honored rather than refused.
These things were dangerous to witness.
They suggested character.
Character complicated games.
Near midnight, when the musicians had softened and the hall had thinned enough for breathing, you slipped out.
Not far. Only to one of the smaller outer galleries overlooking the gardens, where torchlight made pools among the cypress and the fountains whispered to themselves below. The air there was cooler, rinsed at last of spice and people.
You closed your eyes.
For a moment, with the stone cool at your back and the sea wind touching your face, you could almost pretend the southern sky had stars worth looking at.
“Will you accuse me of following you if I say this is my gallery?”
You opened your eyes without moving.
Prince Valarr stood a few paces away in the doorway, alone now, his doublet unlaced a little at the throat as though the feast had finally pressed close enough to make breathing a labor even for princes.
“Is it?” you asked.
“No.”
“Then yes.”
He smiled and came nearer, though not too near.
“You vanish efficiently.”
“So I have been told.”
“Am I included in the tally of those you flee?”
“I had not realized princes needed tallying.”
“We need everything.” He rested one hand against the stone balustrade and looked out over the dark gardens. “Especially on days meant to celebrate us.”
There was tiredness in that, lightly worn but real.
You should not have noticed.
“Was it dreadful,” you asked, “being adored by half the realm’s daughters?”
“By half?” he said. “You flatter me. More like a quarter. A third at most.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
He turned his head. There was satisfaction in his face, quick and boyish and gone again.
“I knew you could be coaxed,” he said.
“I was not coaxed.”
“No?” He looked out again. “Then the fault lies with me. I had hoped I was becoming charming.”
“You are charming. That is the problem.”
He glanced back, brows lifting slightly.
“There,” he said. “Another charge.”
“You asked for them.”
“And you keep giving them.”
Something in the quiet of the gallery made frankness easier than it ought to have been. Perhaps because there was no audience. No Lady Rowan. No circling beauties. No court to misread every breath between you.
Below, a fountain caught moonlight in its spray. Somewhere in the gardens a nightbird called.
“Tell me truly,” he said after a while. “Did you come here tonight resolved to dislike me?”
The honesty of the question deserved honesty in return, though not the whole of it.
“Yes,” you said.
He absorbed that with a small nod, as though confirming a suspicion.
“Why?”
Because you were a prince and princes meant bargaining chips and women carried like banners between houses. Because every look cast my way since we entered the city has weighed what match I might make and whether dragon blood would suit northern bones. Because I am tired of being looked at as though my face were a political advantage.
Instead you said, “Because everyone else liked you too much.”
The answer was lighter than the truth, but not false.
Prince Valarr’s mouth bent. “That is almost an insult.”
“Only almost?”
“I have grown used to more polished cruelty.”
“Then the south has pampered you.”
“The south has dressed its knives in silk.” He leaned one shoulder against the stone, watching you. “The North, I think, leaves them bare.”
“That way you know where the edge is.”
“And do you prefer that?”
“Yes.”
“Even when it cuts?”
“Especially then.”
For a long moment he said nothing.
Moonlight silvered the streak in his hair until it looked almost white. Without the feast around him, without rubies and banners and the bright theatre of court, he seemed younger and older both—less prince, more man who had spent too long being watched.
“At court,” he said at last, “they speak as though my marriage were already a matter of maps and grain. Who brings ships, who brings swords, who quiets which border, who offends which bannerman least. As if I were a piece to be moved on a painted table.”
You went very still.
This was not the conversation you had expected.
“Is that surprising?” you asked carefully.
“No.” His voice remained calm. “Only tedious. And dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“To begin believing oneself a piece,” he said. “Or believing others are.”
The night seemed, absurdly, to narrow around those words.
You looked at him.
He was not smiling now.
He met your gaze with that unnerving directness of his, and suddenly the whole evening rearranged itself in your mind. The patience with the circling ladies. The restraint. The moments of stillness when his face went blank while others performed admiration at him. The way he had asked your permission even in jest. The way he had taken insult and answered with curiosity.
You had thought yourself clever for seeing through the court’s hunger.
You had not considered that he might see it too.
And if he did, then what exactly had he seen when he looked at you?
Not merely indifference. Not merely strategy.
Perhaps something harder. Something familiar.
“You think I came south as a piece to be moved,” you said quietly.
“I think,” he replied, “that you came south determined no one should move you without a fight.”
Your fingers tightened around the stone ledge.
He knew too much.
No—that was not quite right. He knew nothing, not truly. But he guessed in the right direction, and that was worse, because it meant you had not been the only one observing.
“And if I did?” you asked.
“Then I would say you were wise.”
There was no mockery in it. Only sincerity laid between you with a care so delicate it frightened you.
The game slipped then.
Just for a breath.
You felt it go.
And because you felt it, you did the first foolish thing that came to hand.
You attacked.
“Wise enough,” you said, “not to believe princes speak sincerely on moonlit galleries.”
That should have turned him aside. Most men, pricked there, would have retreated into pride or pushed harder out of vanity. Either would have restored the field to familiar ground.
Prince Valarr only looked at you with a kind of rueful patience that made you want to shake him.
“I wondered,” he said, “when you would do that.”
“Do what?”
“Strike when the talk grows too honest.”
The words landed so cleanly that for a moment you had none to set against them.
He stepped nearer.
Still not touching. Still giving you space enough to flee, which somehow made it impossible.
“You are afraid of being made into a prize,” he said softly. “So you would sooner make a game of everyone first.”
The pulse in your throat beat once, twice.
“You presume much, my prince.”
“Yes,” he said. “Because if I do not, you will slip from every true thing between us and leave me talking to your smile.”
You stared at him.
No man had ever spoken to you like this.
Men had praised your beauty, or teased your temper, or tried to impress you with hounds and swords and hawks and boasts. Men had courted the surface they saw or the challenge they imagined. None had ever looked at you as though the danger were not merely your face or your wit, but the places beneath them where you kept yourself hidden and sharp.
It made your breath catch.
Which made you angry.
“You think there are true things between us?” you asked.
“I think there could be.”
It was too much.
The night, the closeness, the startling gentleness of him. The way every answer he gave refused the shape you had prepared for.
You straightened. “My prince, you mistake me.”
“Do I?”
“Yes. I have no wish to be one more lady sighing after you in your father’s hall.”
His gaze did not flinch. “I have not asked you to sigh.”
“You ask enough by coming here.”
“I came because you left.”
“And that is unusual for you? Women leave rooms every day.”
“Not the ones who matter.”
The words hit like a palm against your sternum.
Whether he intended them as flirtation or confession, you could not tell. Perhaps he could not either. The prince who had endured a night of smiles and perfume stood before you now with his collar loosened and moonlight in his hair, and for the first time all evening there was no practiced answer in his face.
Only want.
Not want as lust alone, though that was there in seed. Want as interest sharpened into need. Want to know. Want to continue. Want to see what happened if he kept speaking and you kept listening.
It was exactly what you had meant to provoke.
So why did victory feel so perilously like defeat?
You took a step back.
“I should go.”
He moved too, but only enough that the distance remained the same, not closing, not pressing. “Will you?”
You hated that question.
“Yes.”
“Because you wish to?”
“No.”
The answer escaped before dignity could recall it.
Prince Valarr’s expression altered, very slightly.
Hope, perhaps. Or astonishment. Or the simple, devastating relief of finding honesty returned.
You could have bitten your own tongue.
“Then do not go yet,” he said.
His voice was gentle.
That gentleness was your undoing.
You stayed.
For a little while.
You spoke—not of marriage, not of courts, not of the glistening trap laid around him by half the realm—but of smaller things, which are often the larger in disguise. Of the Wall, which he had never seen. Of the godswood at Winterfell and how the weirwood looked in snowfall, like a thing bleeding through the world. Of the sea beyond Dragonstone, which he said turned black as jet before storms. Of hawking, of books, of how he hated singers who made battles sound noble and you hated septas who called girls meek a virtue. He told you he had once tried to hatch a dragon from a stolen goose egg when he was eight and nearly set fire to a tower. You laughed hard enough at that to wipe tears from the corner of your eyes, and he watched you laugh as though he had discovered treasure no one else had thought to name.
It grew easier.
Too easy.
That was how danger truly entered—not with heat, but with ease. With the treacherous relief of being met instead of managed.
When at last voices sounded from the corridor beyond, servants perhaps, or guards changing watch, you stepped away first.
“I must go now,” you said, and this time you meant it.
He did not stop you.
Only looked at you with that maddening, searching gaze.
“Will I see you tomorrow?”
Probably. Certainly. Inevitably. Court was built of repeated meetings made to seem accidental.
But the question was not whether he would see you.
It was whether you would grant it.
You lifted your chin. “If you have eyes.”
A laugh broke from him, brief and helpless and warm.
“Cruel,” he said.
“You persist in surviving it.”
His smile remained as he bowed.
This time, when he straightened, something in him had changed. The prince at the feast had been polished, poised, desired by everyone and owned by no one. The man before you now looked very much like someone who had just realized wanting could be returned with equal force and far less mercy.
“You planned this,” he said quietly.
The words froze you.
Not because they were true—though they were—but because of how he said them. Not accusing. Not even angry.
Marveling.
You managed, “Planned what?”
His eyes moved over your face as though the answer were written there.
“To be the one woman in King’s Landing who did not care to catch me.”
You said nothing.
Because there was nothing safe to say.
Slowly, Valarr smiled.
Not wounded now. Not merely amused.
Undone.
“You are very dangerous, my lady Stark.”
There it was.
The acknowledgment.
The moment the hunter knew the snare.
And if the tales had ended where good sense advised, that would have been the end of it: your victory clear, his fascination won, your pride satisfied.
But tales, like women, are rarely so obedient.
Because when he said it, you ought to have felt triumph.
Instead, you felt something soft and sick and bright unfurl low in your ribs.
Because he knew.
And still he had not turned away.
Because he knew, and rather than despise the trick, he seemed almost enchanted by having found it.
Because in some reckless corner of yourself you realized you no longer wanted merely to catch a prince’s attention.
You wanted the prince.
That was the true trap.
Not the one you had laid for him.
The one you had walked smiling into yourself.
You inclined your head, because if you did not move, if you did not do something formal and foolish and distancing at once, you feared you might say something from which there would be no returning.
“Good night, my prince.”
“Good night,” he said.
But when you turned, his voice followed you into the dark.
“You should know,” he called softly, “that I would have noticed you anyway.”
You did not look back.
It was well that you did not.
If you had, he might have seen exactly how much that answer pleased you.
//
The next morning, King’s Landing woke hot and bright and full of bells.
You hated it a little more for being beautiful.
Sunlight poured over the city in molten gold, striking the towers of the Red Keep, the domes and septs beyond, the narrow crooked streets tumbling toward the harbor where ships rocked at anchor like dark leaves on flashing water. From your chamber window you could see gulls wheel and dive. You could hear the city too—the hawkers, the carts, the endless noise of too many lives pressed together under too little sky.
A maid laced your gown while Lady Rowan hovered with the air of a woman trying very hard not to ask the question already bursting from her.
At last, she failed.
“Well?”
You met her eyes in the mirror. “Good morning to you as well.”
She made an impatient sound. “Do not torment me. Half the castle saw him walk with you. The other half saw him speak to no one else with half so much attention the whole evening. Then both of you vanished at nearly the same hour.”
“You make it sound scandalous.”
“It could be, if you were any cleverer or any less watched.”
“I am wounded by both implications.”
Lady Rowan waved that off. “Did he kiss you?”
“No.”
“Did he try?”
You smiled slightly. “No.”
“Did you want him to?”
That, infuriatingly, gave you pause.
Lady Rowan saw the pause and nearly clapped like a child at midwinter gifts.
“Oh, you poor thing,” she said with hideous delight. “You are done for.”
“I spoke with him on a gallery, not before the altar.”
“Yes,” she said. “That is how it starts.”
You turned from the mirror. “And how does it end, wise lady?”
Her expression softened in a way you had not expected from her.
“That,” she said, “depends on whether either of you remembers you are not alone in the world.”
Before you could ask what, she meant, a knock came at the door.
A page entered bearing not flowers, not jewels, not some gaudy token of princely attention, but a small carved box of dark wood.
“For Lady Stark,” he said, bowing.
Lady Rowan made a sound as though the Seven themselves had descended into your chamber to witness history.
You took the box.
It was plain. Beautifully made, but plain.
Inside lay a single object; a white winter rose fashioned in hammered silver so delicate each petal seemed soft, though the metal was cool against your fingers. At its center sat a tiny red ruby.
No note.
You stared.
Lady Rowan stared harder. “Well?”
You turned the rose in your hand.
A northern flower wrought in southern metal.
Ice and fire.
Nothing so foolish as a declaration. Nothing so simple as flattery. A gift meant to say, I was listening.
Which meant the prince had either chosen it himself, or had servants clever enough to be dangerous on his behalf.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
“Lady Rowan,” you said after a moment, “how many women did he send jewels to this morning?”
“Do not be stupid. If he had sent jewels, every woman in the castle would have one by noon. This—” She touched the silver rose with one reverent fingertip. “This is thought.”
That was precisely what made it perilous.
You closed the box.
“Send the page back,” you said. “Tell him… tell him I received it.”
Lady Rowan’s eyes widened. “Nothing more?”
“What more is there?”
She looked at you as though she pitied your soul. “Northmen truly are savages.”
When she had gone bustling to dispatch the answer, you sat by the open window with the rose in your lap and watched the city gleam under sun.
Below, in the training yard, men moved like dark insects around the flash of steel.
Somewhere among them, perhaps, the prince had already risen to duties you could not see. Councils. Petitions. Swords. Smiles. The endless machinery of being born where he had been born.
You thought of the moonlit gallery. Of him saying you would spend enough time with him to be disappointed. Of him guessing far too much and not withdrawing for it. Of the simple impossible danger in two people recognizing in each other the same refusal to be used.
You had meant to catch his attention.
That part had succeeded beyond all wisdom.
But attention was easy.
What came after was the thing songs lied about.
After came politics. Fathers. Councils. Banners and bloodlines. The North and the crown. The simple brutal truth that princes did not belong to themselves, nor daughters of great houses to their own desires, however sharp their tongues or proud their hearts.
After came the realm.
Yet sitting there with the silver winter rose cool in your palm, you found that what should have frightened you most was not the realm at all.
It was hope.
Because hope was the most dangerous game of any.
And somewhere beneath the bells and sun and sea, beneath the heat of King’s Landing and all its glittering traps, Prince Valarr Targaryen had begun to hope.
You knew it as surely as you knew your own reflection.
Worse, you had begun to hope with him.
That was how stories truly started—not with love, and not with victory, but with two clever fools looking at the snare between them and stepping closer anyway.
By noon, the court would be talking.
By nightfall, perhaps the queen herself would smile that knowing smile old women wore when they saw youth drifting toward ruin and romance both. Lords would measure consequences. Ladies would scent change in the air like rain. Your father would watch more closely. Your brother would laugh at exactly the wrong moments. The prince would be summoned, advised, steered, warned.
And still, for one hour more, the day belonged only to this…
A northern girl in a southern keep, holding a silver winter rose.
And a prince somewhere below, who had walked willingly into her trap only to make her wonder whether she had mistaken the shape of it all along.
Because perhaps this had never been a hunt.
Perhaps it had been recognition from the first.
Perhaps the reason he had looked at you across that shining hall was not merely because you did not chase him.
Perhaps it was because you looked as though you, too, were tired of being wanted for all the wrong reasons.
You turned the rose once more and smiled despite yourself.
Softly, to the empty room, you said, “You are a fool, my prince.”
But the warmth in your voice made a liar of the words.
And far below, as though the city itself answered, the bells of the Red Keep began to ring.
anything from @dreamfyr-e, really-- they have FANTASTIC modern au fics, but personally my favourite is the king x queen domestic drabble, i literally couldn't stop smiling. gosh I love my man Jace
[✿ ⚡︎ ♡] "By The Sea You Will Find Me" by @spicyhotcheeto - "when word gets out about the brown haired boy that washed up your shores to the iron throne- three dragon riders fly to your seaside village to introduce themselves to your family; one of them in particular catches your eye- lucky for you, you had caught his as well."
LUKE LIVES AU! GOD I really hope they make another part, this was amazing!!!
[✿ ♡] "The Little Flame of Velaryon" by @malcolmanfinnsgirl77 - "you and Jacaerys are parents to a five year old little girl with an attitude"
Adorable!!! I LOVE a good domestic family life au <333
Also another precious family one-shot from them "Our First Kingdom"
[⏾ ⚡︎ ♡] "Summer of Salt and Silver" Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 3 by @malcolmanfinnsgirl77 again - "After years of enduring cruel teasing from Jacaerys Velaryon during your childhood visits to Dragonstone, you grow to despise him as deeply as he once mocked you. But when you return one summer after years away no longer the awkward girl he ridiculed, but poised and striking everything changes."
Nothing like good enemies to lovers to fix my mood fr, I adore this series and hope there might be more in the future! It's so good!!!
[✿ ♡ 𝓮] "A Love of Some Kind" by @cowpokemythology - "in which jacaerys and his betrothed find themselves entangled amongst dewy grasses and pliant flowers."
I adore when characters are so close the word "love" doesn't feel like enough to describe their connection. Tho it's mostly smut their dynamic is so good, I genuinely felt connected to their story <3
[✿ ♡] "A Dragon's Waltz" by @cowpokemythology again - "it was your favorite celebration of the year. every lord gathered to make merry, dance, and enjoy the finest spiced wines. and this year, you have a dragon prince to share it with."
Another Stark MC fic! It's adorable how they both only have eyes for each other, and the kiss made me smile so wide my cheeks hurt. Plss I love my softie Jace I need moreee <333
[✿ ♡ ꩜] "Is That My Hoodie" flufftober prompt by @dreamfyr-e again! - modern Jace x reader
Adorableee, I love modern aus where the targtowers are fam and Aegon is an annoying little shit. Short but sweet, def go check it out! <3
[✿ ⚡︎ ♡ 𝓮] "Back to Friends" by @illusioninfnty - "Stuck in a dull marriage with a man decades older than you, your childhood friend convinces you why he should have been your betrothed."
It's mostly smut, but I loved their relationship! I'd love it if they ever did a part 2 where MC leaves her old husband and marries Jace <333
[✿ ⚡︎ ♡] Brother's best friend by @the-darklings - sort of enemies to lovers, MC is Cregan's sister, modern au
idk what tags to use tbh, but I loved this!!! If they ever make a part 2 I'll jump it like a hungry dog, it's not even funny. My OC for Jace is Cregan's sister so this fic is even more precious to me, loved it <333
[✿ ⚡︎ ♡] "Dangerous Disposition" by @flowersforjude - "You could not leave him. Not when your very breath was the only thing that kept him tethered to this world. "
Men pathetically in love with their women>>>>> I loved it
More to come!!! I'm obsessed with my dark-haired Targaryens, there'll def be a part 2!
[⏾ ⚡︎ ♡ 𝓮] "Rule the Roost" series by @honey-sweeeet - as described by Shakespeare themself, it's "an angst-heavy love story that follows two young people fighting off the pressures of maintaining a dynasty"
THIS. IS. A MASTERPIECE. Hands down the BEST Valarr fic I've ever read oh my god. I come back to it religiously because it is PEAK! Fair warning tho, there really are heavy themes like animal cruelty (courtesy of Aerion) and mentions of childbirth and stillbirths, but the heaviness balances it so beautifully so I strongly recommend you give it a chance!
there's also another work in that universe, "Family Matters", which is a very sweet addition to the end of the series!
[✿ ♡ ꩜] "She's my Wife" by @cosmictheo - "at prince valarr’s name day feast, ser duncan makes the fatal mistake of assuming his terrifyingly composed wife must be another of maekar’s daughters."
Love terrifying women being soft to that one special person. Egg is so precious and Dunk flopped so badly it was hilarious. Short but sweet, def recommend!
[✿ ♡ ꩜] "A Really Good Boyfriend" by @catbayunthestoryteller - "Modern AU. Valarr is obsessed and in love with his best friend."
I adore when men are pathetically in love with their s/o. This Valarr is one of my favs bc he's Down Bad for his bff and also such a gentleman plsss I need a man like this WHY is he fictional...
Also they have another work that's a prequel to this, "A Really Good Friend", but there's smut so beware!
[✿ ♡ ꩜] "Beguiled" by @kthologue - grumpy x sunshine!
OBSESSED! They're adorable your honour, I love a smitten Valarr! It's a continuation of "Patience is a virtue" so be sure to check that out, too! I loved both fics sm <333
[⏾ ⚡︎ ♡] "The wolf he chose" by @theladysoleil - "The North was never meant to change the course of Valarr Targaryen's life. He expected nothing more than political alliances, careful smiles and an eventual betrothal that suited the crown. Instead, he found a woman who wields weapon and that some choices cannot be made for crown alone."
I've always been a Stark girlie and I love this SM!!! It's an ongoing series with weekly updates and I'm so obsessed I stalk their profile every few hours on drop date, no joke. I'm a little gremlin giggling maniacally in the corner every time Valarr and MC interact, you NEED to check it out!!!
Also their other works are to die for, go see too!
[✿ ⚡︎] "Burn For You" by @malcolmanfinnsgirl77 - "Valarr would risk it all for you."
Discovered it by accidents when I was searching for their Jace fic and omg it's wonderful. Yearning men! Gimme more!!!
[✿ ⚡︎ ♡ 𝓮] "The End of Almost" @sunfyre-targaryen - "inside valarr's apartment, the world stops; outside the lights of king's landing blur in the rain. after three years of friday movie nights, unspoken words, and shared silence, the weight of everything they haven't said finally reaches a breaking point. the fear of losing what they have after graduation forces a long-overdue collision. they discover that crossing the line doesn't ruin the story; it finally finishes it."
Loveee a good modern au, and friends to lovers always holds a special place in my heart <333
[⏾ ⚡︎ ♡] "Disparate Dragons" by @thespottedcreature - "Crossover between Inheritance and A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms."
A crossover I didn't expect, truly, and it got me to finally watch Eragon and low-key I wanna read the books now. What can I say, I adore dragons no matter the media, and their take on these two universes is so much fun!
[⏾ ⚡︎ ♡] "Twenty Long Years" by @iicarusflew - Valarr and you are childhood friends. Only friends, you thought for such a long time that it became part of your narrative. Oh, you know him so well because you’re his friend. He looks at you from across the crowded ballroom because you are his oldest friend. There could never be anything else… could it?
AMAZING!!! The pining had me at the edge of my seat and goshh Valarr choosing her despite everything? And the bit about his favourite colour? I loved it sm pls read it! It's so good!!!
[✿ ♡] "Heaven Sent" by @iicarusflew again- "You need a little reassurance of your goodluck, and Valarr is more than happy to give it to you."
I said it before and I'll say it again, domestic family fluff has my heart <3 I adore their fics sm y'all, go check out their masterlist frrr, their Valarr fics are to die for!
Also I'm low-key convinced it's a sequel to "Twenty Long Years" bc of the colour thing again, it was adorable!
[⏾ ⚡︎ ♡] "Hung by a Thread" by @sagegreencat10 - "Valarr's betrothed cannot resist the temptation to test him, pressing at his patience, dance with danger, and discover just how jealous a dragon can become. Each tease a spark thrown on dry straw."
LOVEDDD IT! They managed to capture the balance between misunderstandings and genuine devotion so well! The way both sides were both in the wrong and in the right, the complicated nature of their relationship, honestly as a writer myself I couldn't stop reading. And Aerion! For the first time I read an Aerion fic because of their characterization of him in the Valarr fic, I'll def add their work to the Aerion fic recs! Guys seriously check out their other works because their writing is insane!!!
[⏾ ♡ ꩜] "I Think I Miss My Wife" by @lalalovelyly - "Four days without his wife, and Prince Valarr Targaryen is certain he is dying. The court calls it excess. His brother calls it pathetic. Valarr calls it devotion. And he intends to survive it. Probably."
Of course we can't forget the GOAT Lala! Her works are so good y'all, and ITIMMW universe is so precious and hilarious LOL. I love a pathetic man that needs his wife like air and doesn't want to live without her. I adore how MC also finds him ridiculous and is just as bad as him! There are other parts to this AU so be sure to check the masterlist!
[⏾ ⚡︎ ♡] "Bastards, Dragons and Royals" by @lalalovelyly again <3 - "dragonseed reader that finds an injured dragon on Dragonstone and nurses it back to health. Valarr is pathetically in love with bastard!yn. kindness as a core trait (dunk core)"
It's an ongoing series that I love beyond measure, I swear. Girlie had me stressed a few times but honestly I can't wait to see more of this! Genuinely it's worth reading even just for our beautiful Moonfyre (the dragon) <333 LOVE how it's turning out so far, I can't wait for Maekarlings to make an appearance frr
Also there's gorgeous fanarts of Moonfyre and YN attached to the masterlist, so go see it too! Maybe I'll add a piece of mine in the future, who knows~
[✿ ♡] "The Dragon's Secret" Pt 1, Pt 2 by @lalalovelyly - "In which your husbands dragon knows something you don't"
LOVE AUs where the dragons are still alive! Aerrix my beloved, even if she's a bit OOC for a dragon her interactions are adorable! Loved itt <333
(Also Lala has so many other fics worth checking out! I didn't wanna put too many in here but srsly go to her masterlist it's so worth it!)
I have so many more saved so I definitely will be making a part two, and if any of you guys have any recs yourselves I'll be more than happy to read them! I love my man Valarr sm <333
I've always been captivated by media that touch on that bittersweet terror of being part of a cycle, you are a product of the before, and you will feed the after.
Poems like Wild Grapes and Out of Time by Kenneth Slessor, but also the song Seventeen by Sharon Van Etten really capture that for me. This poem recited by Gore during the fight against Mirmulnir makes that concept feel almost peaceful.
This is not a scary, or intimidating fight, but this poem really makes you feel like sitting in the calm before a storm. Objectively, the wording is confronting, talking about blood, sacrifice, and feeding the soil to give way for someone else, but emphasizes the joy in that.
As someone who survived a cancer diagnosis, this idea of being a part of giving way to the after, as being something to cherish, is so lovely to me.
But I'll leave my rant there with no real conclusion pls :)
When DB and Gore go on a particularly shitty mission, DB tries to spend the next couple nights in an inn... not that Gore doesn't love camping, it definitely clears his head, but having a nicer(er) bed to fall into and food ready-made is just... a luxury that Gore didn't seem to get much. He gets so happy when he gets told to relax at an inn!
Sometimes there's only rooms with one bed, but that for sure doesn't stop 'em. DB won't let Gore sleep on the floor, Gore would rather swallow rusty nails than let the Dragonborn who saved his life sleep on the floor... At first Gore is very shy and flustered, but over time when it's clear DB isn't looking for anything, they end up flopping all over each other. Meeko is there, keeping their feets warm!
Now I kinda want to draw a cuddle pile of all the followers.... but drawing two different sized people is hard enough. Mmmmmaybe. Maybe later.
I wish I could draw better but this is what I got!! I imagine Gore pretty fucked when you find him in that bear trap... desperate to live, barely escaped the thalmor alive only to walk right into a damned trap.
Got Skyrim running again and Gore is so skinny, it breaks my heart... my references were my memory and screenshots, and they didn't really depict it well enough to me iguess? He's barely even a man, so skinny, honestly still skinnier than I drew him here. I guess my headcanon for my other drawn Gores is that DB is SHOVELING food into him because all they see is this bloody, furious, crying angry skinny, exhausted and DESPERATE to start living for the first time boy
Horses are hard to draw but I wanted to draw the boy again. And... Count Fleet! That's a pretty big mile stone for Gore.
DB got Count Fleet fully intending to replace him ASAP. A horse from Cyrodiil would struggle in Skyrim's harsh weather, and he was the last one in stables that was available to buy and even then the stable owner had to be convinced and bribed under hushed whispers. Plain bay and skinny, Count Fleet gets cold and needs blankets in the mountains and usually at night, won't cross rivers because they're all glacier-fed and FREEZING. Count was meant to be temporary, better than nothing until better could be gotten, but Gore was well and truly smitten by the beast... He would never let Count go, and DB had to realize that late at night as Gore was settling blankets over Count, scratching his chin and cooing softly as he fed him bites of apple
Baelorlings being just little angels and Maekarlings... actually not being that chaotic since dad's watching and Aerion behaves when he's with him but he's still smirking evilly at poor Egg bc he's a little shit <3
More sketches and thoughts under the cut!
I love Maekar so much, "stressed and grumpy mother" coded characters are one of my fav.
More details:
- Daeron has a symbolic star in his eye for his visions/dreams.
- He's definitively on catnip.
- I couldn't find good descriptions of Rhae and Daella so I ended giving one full Targ colouring and the other is a brown tabby (like her mom) but with white markings and lilac eyes.
- I NEED to know more about those two and Aemon GIMME MORE MAEKAR CONTENT WITH HIS CHILDREN I'M BEGGING.
- Any Targaryen has lilac eyes (or purple) in my mind, so Matarys and Daella get those even if they are not silvery white.
- Baelor has a white spot under his lilac eye showing his Targaryen genes and he passed it to his son. I'm soooo weak for the lilac&brown eye combo for Baelor and Valarr <333. He's a mini-Baelor but with a brownish tint in his fur and a bigger white marking referencing his silver hair strand in canon.
- Traditional Targaryen cats will be a bit pinkish when little and will get silvery o more golden when they age (look at Maekar compared to Egg, Rhae and Aemon).
- Yes, Dunk would be a Maine Coon mix.
- Don't ask me how all the dragon riders stuff could work here, I don't know lol.
pairing: jacaerys velaryon x stark!reader
word count: 1.6k
description: it was your favorite celebration of the year. every lord gathered to make merry, dance, and enjoy the finest spiced wines. and this year, you have a dragon prince to share it with.
tags: fluff, some mistletoe, historical inaccuracy bc no one's losing their shit that they're so close all the time, they're both a little tipsy, pretend mistletoe is a tradition in asoiaf, just a merry time all around.
a/n: this isn't proofread as you'll probably be able to tell BUT GUESS WHO POSTED ON TIME!
The Great Hall of Winterfell buzzed with merry noise.
Boisterous lords laugh and their ladies smile and gossip behind their hands. Children scamper around the halls, chasing each other with small wooden wolves. Even some hounds have been allowed to enjoy the festivities. One whines, its chin propped on Cregan’s knee. The Lord of the North secretly slips it small chunks of venison.
The smell of sweet and savory spices hover in the air. Every table is piled high with the finest foods the North can offer. There are savory stews, tarts of every flavor, mysterious puddings, ripe round cranberries, jams, and roasted vegetables.
Ribbons are strung high from the rafters and garlands of Stark colors decorate each banner around the hall. The hearths roared and the candles strew everything into a warm and nostalgic light.
But, best of all, there was the dancing.
Every capable couple seemed attracted to the dance floor like moths to flame. The bards had struck up a jaunty tune, cajoling and guiding dancers to its alluring rhythm. It was a swirl of bright wool dresses, embroidered tunics, flushed cheeks, and exhilarated hearts.
That is where you had spent most of the night.
As the younger sister of Lord Stark, you were usually expected to be a proper hostess. Usually, you were at your brother's side… nodding and plastering on a strange smile to appease his bannerman. Even when they offered their sons, or their own hands, for your choice of husband. (Thankfully, Cregan was quick to turn his nose up at those ideas quicker than you could yourself). You were rarely allowed much freedom or fun at these balls, duty always required your attention.
But tonight was different.
Tonight you had a prince to tend to. The very same prince who had been in the North for a couple moons. The very same Targaryen who you’d agreed to enter courtship with.
Jacaerys Velaryon.
When he’d first arrived, sliding from the back of his dragon in the midst of Winterfell’s grand courtyard, you’d expected to feel disdain as the rest of the North felt for the ruling family. But watching the prince trudge up to you and your brother; shivering like a wet ox, snowflakes caught in his brunette hair, and cheeks tinged a pretty pink… you’d felt butterflies instead of curdling distrust.
And when he’s pressed a respectful kiss to the back of your hand, flicking those angelic hazel eyes to your own, you were done for.
You’d practically begged Cregan behind closed doors to make an offer to the dragon prince. (It had taken a lot of convincing, and even a threat to tell embarrassing stories from your shared childhood to his men, to get him to cave.)
The previous song comes to a tremendous close, with rapidly strummed lute strings and the resonant hum of a harp.
Strong hands settle firmly on your waist, lifting you into the air and startling a laugh from you, before being quickly set on the ground once again. It was a showy move, but it was late enough into the night that everyone was deep enough into their cups to ignore it.
Your giggles taper off as you lean against him for a moment, even letting out a snort that is decidedly un-ladylike. Surrounding lords and ladies simply look the other way, murmuring about young love. Jacaerys smells like dragon smoke and sandalwood and he’s laughing too. The cups of mulled wine you’ve both indulged in tonight are being felt, it seems.
“Careful, my lady.” He steadies you with warm palms on your waist. You’re halfway convinced that the warmth of his touch alone could keep you heated through the coldest winter upon the wall.
You pull back to narrow your eyes at him. Though, the effect is ruined by the flush dusted upon your cheeks and the smile you fail to bite back.
“I am not drunk, my prince.”
“I never said you were.”
“I can still dance perfectly well.”
“I am well aware.”
The bards start up another tune, light and flowery.
You gasp and cast your beaming gaze at Jacaerys once again.
“Another dance, my prince?”
He sighs, long suffering, but he’s still smiling too.
“By the gods, how have your feet not fallen off yet?”
You shrug, biting your lip as you admire his countenance.
“I am simply taking advantage of this grand opportunity. I do not get to dance with handsome princes very often, you know.”
Around you, couples begin to swirl again. They gracefully avoid you and Jacaerys, their twirling not unlike the ripples cast upon a lake.
“Is that so?” Jacaerys asks with a raised brow.
He’s so beautiful you can feel the physical effect of it in your chest. His hair has grown since his being here, natural curls emerging to frame his face. His lashes were long like a lady’s but fit his hazel eyes so well. They cast imperceptible shadows across his flushed cheeks. And, gods, his freckles. You don’t think they’ve ever looked so endearing on anyone else. You wanted to press a kiss to each and every one. You also wanted to kiss his plush, pouty, pink lips. Very very badly.
You hardly even realize he’s still waiting for a response, undoubtedly looking a bit simple. He only chuckles and that alone is enough to quell some of your embarrassment.
“You look a bit flushed, Lady Stark.” He muses. “Perhaps some fresh air would cool you down?”
You tilt your head, pretending to consider it. Some of your hair has escaped your carefully done up style during your hours of dancing. A strand falls into your face. Jacaerys gently tucks it behind your ear without a second thought. Butterflies erupt in your stomach and your cheek tingles where his touch had lingered.
“I suppose I’ll allow it.” You sigh. “But only if you promise me a dance when we return again.”
Your arm slips easily into his own when he offers it. He expertly weaves you both through the interwoven couples.
Unbeknownst to you both, Cregan’s eyes linger on your retreating forms as you leave the hall. But he simply smiles to himself.
The chill outside is an immediate remedy to your flushed skin. When you exhale, you can see your breath.
The inner courtyard is quiet tonight, due to the time and celebrations inside. The bushes rustle with a slight breeze. Snowflakes dance across your view, elegantly landing and sticking to the ground. The pathways have been cleared of the powdery banks that envelop most of what used to be a garden. Faintly, the music can still be heard from the hall. It’s muted, distant, leaving the atmosphere more intimate.
You keep your arm through Jace’s own, keeping his warmth against you. When you shiver, he presses closer.
Silence stretches but it does not cause any sort of discomfort. It’s easy, with Jacaerys. A lot easier than you ever thought it could be. He enjoyed the peace of the North as much as you did, it seems.
“I was right.” You muse.
Curious, Jacaerys looks at you with a raised brow. You can see a snowflake caught in his eyelash. Another lands on his cheek, melting instantly. To your joy, the cold nips his nose and cheeks into a pretty pink.
“About?”
“Earlier, I thought you might be enough to keep me warm on the coldest night in the North.” Your eyes flick to his own, warm despite the temperature surrounding you. “I was right.”
His smile is instantaneous and genuine. The wine flowing through both your veins makes you giddy; drunk on each other and the best decanters Winterfell had to offer. You’re both buzzing with it. It was easy to forget a war was brewing in the South. In the comforts of the North, in your company, Jacaerys likes to pretend his life could be this simple.
You, him, cool winter nights, and keeping one another warm, safe.
His lips part, to say something, but you interrupt his thought. Your gaze flicks up and you laugh quietly. Jacaerys follows your eyes.
Dangling above the two of you is an inconspicuous plant… hung with the other decorations that adorn the keep tonight. Its dark green leaves only emphasize the few white berries still clinging to its bough.
Your eyes meet one another at the same moment. A quiet air of shyness and anticipation fills the small space between you. Had you been this close the whole time?
“You're familiar with the tradition, my prince?” Your voice is a husk, like the Northern wind. Gravelly but all-encompassing.
“I am.”
And suddenly, you’re buzzing from much more than just the wine.
Slowly, very slowly, giving you time to back away he reaches his hand up to cup your cheek. His palms are cool but quickly warm against your skin. You press into the touch ever so slightly, breath hitching. Half-lidded umber eyes track your own. They search for any sign of hesitation or concern. They find none.
“My lady,” he begins. “May I kiss you?”
You’ve never wanted anything more.
“You may.”
Embarrassingly, you smile when his lips touch yours. It makes him laugh quietly, both shy and embarrassed.
“Stop it.” He admonishes playfully. “I cannot kiss your teeth.”
“Sorry, sorry.” You breathe.
This time, you school yourself enough to truly feel the kiss. His lips are plush, like you knew they would be, and ever so slightly chapped from the cold wind. Your hands tangle into his cloak and you tilt your head, searching for more. He makes a soft noise. You feel as if you could fly away with how light you feel. You’re glad his hand is here to ground you. You can taste the wine on his lips.
You blink as he pulls back, but he doesn’t go far. He nudges his nose against your own. You’re both smiling like simpletons, giddy and exhilarated.
“I know it isn’t tradition.” Jacaerys murmurs. “But I’d really like to kiss you again, if you’d let me.”
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