The Laughing Storm, reasonable Prince and Pentosi Disaster | Valarr Targaryen x reader PART II
Previous part here: PART I
Summary: As princess Y/N searches for new ways to test Prince Aerion's sanity, she finds an unexpected ally in Lord Baratheon. At the same time, Prince Valarr struggles to understand his feelings, torn between the expectations of the Iron Throne and the irresistible pull towards the girl turning the Red Keep upside down. Meanwhile, Dean effortlessly slips into the role of her trusted partner in crime. When the four of them join forces, it soon becomes clear that no one can stop them.
Pairings: Valarr Targaryen x Targaryen!reader, Lyonel Baratheon & reader, Dean & reader
Content: pure vibes, targcest, slow burn, childhood friends to lovers(?), pranks, poor Aerion is losing his mind. Reader owns a pug - Lady. Valarr is down bad. Dean is there for moral support.
Warning: English is not my first language. It's long. I apologise, I still have trouble planning the pacing properly. Please let me know what you think!! Enjoy 🫶🫶
Three days passed since Valarr started a rumour. Now, as you and Valarr walk toward the throne room, you notice a few courtiers leaning in to one another, their eyes darting toward your neck and shoulders. The "exotic perfume" rumor is clearly taking root.
Valarr leans in, his voice a mere breath against your ear. "It's working. Look at the way the ladies are tilting their heads. They're trying to catch a scent of the 'magic' you've brought from across the sea."
You spot Lyonel Baratheon across the courtyard, laughing with a group of knights. He catches sight of you and the dog and lets out a booming call. "Princess! Bring the potato over here! :
With a graceful stride, you lead the way toward the booming laughter of the Storm Lord. Lady trots beside you, her little paws clicking on the stone, occasionally stopping to sniff a particularly interesting crack in the pavement.
"Lord Lyonel!" you call out, your voice bright.
Lyonel Baratheon turns toward you, grinning "The Lady herself! Tell me, Princess, how is Prince Aerion finding life under the same roof with a dog so small, yet so diabolical?"
"He's quite distraught, my lord," you say, stepping closer to him. "He's calling her a biological weapon. I thought it only right that she spend some time with a man of true courage to recover from such trauma."
Lyonel roars with laughter, reaching down to scoop Lady up. He holds her high, the pug's paws flapping as she looks around the courtyard with an expression of profound boredom. "By the gods, I love this dog. She's more dangerous than a dozen knights of the Kingsguard!"
He looks at you, his brown eyes twinkling with a shared love for chaos. "So, Y/N, what's the plan? Are we simply observing the fallout, or are we planning to push the Prince further over the edge?"
"Oh, Valarr already started to push him," you say, casting a side-long glance at the prince with a smirk. "Have you heard about the 'exotic' perfume I brought from Pentos?"
Lyonel freezes, the pug still perched in his arms. He looks from you to Valarr, his brow furrowing as he processes the information. Then, a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. He understands the game immediately.
"A scent, is it?" Lyonel asks, his voice dropping to a stage-whisper that carries far too far. "Some Essosi magic to drive the men mad? I've heard the perfumes of the Free Cities can make a man forget his own name, let alone his dignity."
Valarr leans back against the stone railing, crossing his arms. He looks perfectly innocent, though the glint in his mismatched eyes betrays him. "I merely mentioned it to a few ladies, Lord Lyonel. I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding."
"A misunderstanding! Ha!" Lyonel bellows, his laugh echoing through the courtyard. "I can't wait to see Aerion's face when he realizes he's chasing a ghost. He'll be sniffing the air like a madman"
He hands Lady back to you, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "You've got a cruel streak in you, girl. I love it. Most princesses return from their travels with embroidery, poetry, or some courtly nonsense. You came back with a whole war chest of chaos."
You take Lady in your arms, the pug letting out a small, contented snort and smile. "My lord, would you like to meet my partner in crime?"
Lyonel's interest peaks. He leans in, his expression one of genuine curiosity. "A partner in crime, you say? I've had enough of these stiff-necked nobles and their polished manners. A man who can keep up with you and a pug is exactly the kind of company I enjoy. I'd be honored to meet this mystery man."
Valarr watches the exchange, his mismatched eyes reflecting a flicker of curiosity-and perhaps a touch of something else at the mention of this 'partner'. He steps closer to you, his shoulder brushing yours.
"I'm curious as well," Valarr adds, his voice soft and smooth. "I've heard the stories of your time in Pentos. I wonder if Dean is as chaotic as you've led us to believe."
Lyonel claps a hand on Valarr's shoulder, nearly knocking the prince off balance. "He'd better be! If he's half as troublesome as Y/N, we might actually make this tourney interesting. Lead the way, Princess. Let's find this man before Aerion manages to climb down from that balcony and start screaming." He subtly points at a balcony where the silver-haired prince is standing.
"I believe that he'll be at the stables with his beloved horse," you say, a fond smile touching your lips. "He always calls her his 'baby'."
Lyonel beams, already stepping toward the exit of the courtyard. "A man after my own heart! There's nothing quite like the bond between a rider and his horse. Come on then, let's go meet this romantic madman."
As you approach the stables, the smell of hay and leather fills the air. As you round the corner, you spot a man standing by a stall. He's speaking in a low, soothing tone to a magnificent mare, his hand gently stroking her velvet nose.
Valarr stands beside you, his gaze scanning the man with a curiosity. He looks like he's trying to decide if this is the "partner in crime" you promised or simply a very devoted animal lover.
You step forward, your voice ringing out through the stable. "I hope that horse is as well-behaved as you are, Dean!"
The man jumps, he spins around, and the moment he sees you, his entire face transforms into a look of absolute joy. You throw your arms around him in a tight hug. "You've become a myth here. Please, let me introduce you to Lord Lyonel Baratheon and my cousin Valarr Targaryen."
Dean laughs, the sound warm and easy. He looks slightly overwhelmed by the sudden royal company, but he recovers with a graceful, albeit humble, bow. After short exchange of words, he admits "The journey was... eventful," glancing at Lady. "I believe the dog spent half the trip trying to convince the sailors that she was the actual captain of the ship."
Lyonel steps forward, his massive hand landing on Dean's shoulder with a force that makes the man stagger slightly. "A man who can smuggle a snoring potato across the Narrow Sea is a man I can trust! I've heard you're the one who keeps the Princess from becoming too bored in Pentos."
Dean gives a modest shrug, though his eyes sparkle with amusement. "I mostly just try to stay out of the way when the mischief starts, my lord. Usually, I'm just the one cleaning up the evidence."
Valarr remains a step behind, his mismatched eyes observing Dean. He doesn't look hostile, but there's a certain sharpness to his gaze, as if he's measuring exactly where this man fits into your life.
"He's the only one who can keep up with me," you say, beaming at Dean, genuine happiness lighting your face.
Dean gives a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. "Keep up? Most of the time I'm just trying to make sure we don't get thrown into a dungeon in three different cities before lunch."
"So, have you heard about Aerion's cruel accusations about Lady?" you ask, your voice dripping with mock hurt as you look at Dean.
Dean blinks, glancing down at the pug, who is currently trying to chew on the lace of Valarr's boot. "Cruel accusations? What did he call her? A menace? A nuisance?"
"A biological weapon," Valarr answers for you, his tone dry. "He's convinced the dog is an instrument of war. He spent the morning screaming about a biological attack on his chambers."
Dean pauses, then a slow, delighted grin spreads across his face. He looks at Lady, then back to you, his eyes shimmering with a mixture of pride and amusement. "A biological weapon? Truly? I knew she had a certain... talents, but I didn't realize she'd achieved military status."
Dean chuckles, reaching down to scratch Lady behind the ears. "I'm honored to have been the transport for such a formidable soldier. I'll have to make sure she gets extra treats for her service to the crown."
You make your way back toward the heart of the Red Keep, a strange and formidable group: a prince, a Storm Lord, a Pentosi companion, and a pug who looks entirely too pleased with herself.
As you enter the gallery leading toward the royal apartments, the air feels thicker. Courtiers are huddled in small groups, their voices a low drone that stops abruptly whenever you pass. Some of the ladies lean in, sniffing the air with confused expressions, clearly searching for the elusive scent of the "exotic perfume."
"Look at them," Lyonel whispers, his voice barely contained. "They're practically hunting for it"
You spot Aerion standing near a set of heavy oak doors, surrounded by a few sycophants. He looks frazzled. His silver hair is slightly disheveled, and his violet eyes are darting around the room with manic. He's leaning in, inhaling deeply, as if trying to isolate a specific scent from the crowd.
The moment he sees you approaching, accompanied by the laughing Baratheon and a smirking Valarr-his posture stiffens. He looks at you, then his gaze drops to Lady, and his expression curdles into one of pure disgust.
"You," Aerion spits, stepping forward. "You and your... creature. I can smell the stench of the Free Cities on you from here. Tell me, is this some new game? Some crude Pentosi trick to mock the blood of the dragon? And now you bring a commoner into the royal gallery and expect me to be impressed? I suppose it fits. A dog, a peasant, and a princess who's forgotten her place. It's a regular circus."
Dean doesn't flinch. Instead, he gives Aerion a polite, almost pitying smile. "A pleasure to meet you, Prince Aerion. Y/N has told me so much about you. Most of it involved the word 'clown,' but I'm sure there were some compliments in there somewhere."
The silence that follows is thick. Lyonel makes a sound that's halfway between a cough and a laugh, his shoulders shaking. Valarr simply looks away, though the corner of his mouth is twitching.
Aerion's face flushes a deep, angry red. He takes a step toward Dean, his voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. "You dare speak to a prince of the blood with such insolence? I could have you whipped for less."
Lady chooses this exact moment to let out a loud, wet sneeze, spraying directly onto Aerion's polished leather boot. "Careful, Aerion. I think she's trying to tell you something," you say, your voice laced with a sweet innocence.
Aerion freezes. He looks down at the glistening spot on his boot, his face twisting into a mask of sheer loathing. For a second, he looks as though he might actually strike the dog-or perhaps Dean-but the presence of Lord Lyonel and Prince Valarr acts as a tether.
He recoils, stepping back with a violent jerk of his foot, as if the dog's sneeze were a splash of acid. "You filthy, wretched animal!" he snarls, though his anger is now clouded by a flicker of that returning paranoia. He glances at the crowd, who are now openly stifling laughs.
Lyonel lets out a roar of laughter that echoes through the gallery, his hand slapping his thigh. "A divine omen! The gods themselves are laughing at you, Aerion! First the biological attack in your room, now a blessing upon your boots!"
Aerion's violet eyes snap to Lyonel, then to Dean, and finally to you. He's trembling, his jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might snap. The humiliation is visible; he is a prince of the blood, yet he's being dismantled by a pug and a group of people who find his misery entertaining.
"This is not over," Aerion hisses, his voice shaking. "I will see this... this beast removed from the keep."
He turns on his heel and storms away, his cape billowing behind him, leaving a trail of stunned silence and muffled giggles in his wake. You turn back to your companions, a triumphant glint in your eyes. " Now, who wants some wine? I believe we should get Lady some treats from the kitchen for her brave performance."
Lyonel lets out a hearty sound of approval, his booming voice filling the gallery. "Wine and dog treats. A feast fit for a queen and her general! I'm in. I've a sudden craving for something strong enough to make me forget I'm in a palace full of people who use words like 'biological attack'."
Valarr walks close to you, his shoulder brushing yours as you move toward the servant's corridors. He looks at you with a mixture of admiration and sheer disbelief. "You've managed to turn the most feared prince in the keep into a laughingstock in less than seventy-two hours. I'm starting to think the real biological weapon isn't the dog."
He glances down at Lady, who is trotting with an air of extreme importance. "Though I suspect the dog is the one who'll actually get the treats."
"What can I say, I raised her right," you reply, glancing down at Lady.
Valarr lets out a soft huff of laughter, his expression softening. "Indeed. You've raised her to be a menace to the crown. I'm almost impressed."
The group turns the corner into the kitchens, where the air is thick with the scent of roasting garlic, fresh bread, and simmering stews. It's a chaotic symphony of shouting cooks and clattering pots. As you enter, a burly man with a flour-dusted apron and a face like a bruised plum looks up, his eyes widening as he sees the royal party.
"Prince Valarr! Lord Lyonel!" the head cook barks, quickly wiping his hands on his apron and bowing. "I wasn't expecting guests in the larders this early. Can I offer you something? Some honey cakes? A taste of the venison?"
Dean steps forward with a wink, leaning in with that effortless charm of his. "The venison sounds lovely, Master Cook, but I believe the Princess's companion has a more urgent craving. Something small, tender, and perhaps a bit too expensive for a dog's diet?"
The cook looks down at Lady, who is currently sitting on her haunches, looking up at him with the most pathetic, wide-eyed expression a pug can muster. The man's stern face melts instantly.
"Poor little thing," the cook mutters, his voice softening. "Right then. I've got some prime scraps of roast beef from the morning's prep. I'll get them for you."
As the cook scurries off, Lyonel leans against a heavy wooden table, looking around the room with a satisfied grin. "Now that the 'biological weapon' is being fed, about that wine. I know a cellar in this keep that holds a vintage from the Reach that would make a man sing. Shall we?"
The head cook returns, presenting a small silver platter piled high with tender, juicy strips of roast beef. Lady doesn't wait for an invitation; she lunges forward with a series of enthusiastic snorts, vacuuming up the meat in a matter of seconds. She looks up at the cook, licking her chops with an expression of pure bliss.
"Lead the way then," you say, giving a playful nudge to Lyonel's arm.
The Lord of Storm's End beams, practically marching the group out of the kitchens and down a series of winding, torch-lit corridors. The noise of the palace fades as you descend deeper into the belly of the Red Keep, the air turning cool and damp, smelling of old stone and fermented grapes.
Lyonel stops before a heavy iron-bound door, glancing back at the group with a conspiratorial wink. "Most of the royal cellars are guarded by bores who've forgotten how to drink. But there's a private nook here that the guards usually ignore."
He pushes the door open, revealing a small, cozy vaulted room lined with dusty racks of wine. A single table sits in the center, flanked by a few mismatched chairs and a pile of velvet cushions. It feels like a sanctuary, far removed from the stifling etiquette of the gallery and Aerion's simmering rage.
"Now," Lyonel says, moving toward a specific rack with a treasure hunter. He pulls out a dark, deep-green bottle. "A vintage from the Arbor, aged in oak and sunlight. It's bold, slightly sweet, and enough to make a man feel like he's floating above the clouds."
He pops the cork with a satisfying thump and pours the liquid into four silver goblets he'd apparently stashed there for just such an occasion.
Valarr takes his glass, swirling the dark red liquid. He looks at you, the dim torchlight catching the different colors of his eyes. "To the biological weapon," he toasts softly, his voice echoing slightly in the small room. "And to the woman who knows exactly how to use her."
The glasses collide with a crisp, ringing chime. Lyonel drinks deeply a generous amount of the Arbor gold. He lets out a satisfied sigh, a small drop of red clinging to his beard.
"By the gods, that's a proper drink," Lyonel says, leaning back into a velvet cushion.
Dean takes a slower sip, his expression one of thoughtful appreciation, he looks over at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. "So, Princess, now that the board is set and the pieces are moving, what's the next phase of the plan? Or are we content to just let Aerion simmer in his own hatred for a few hours?"
Valarr remains quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on you. He's holding his goblet loosely, his posture relaxed, but there's an intensity in his eyes that suggests he's far from just a passive observer.
"The rumor of the perfume is the most stable part," Valarr muses, his voice low and melodic. "The court loves a mystery, especially one that makes a prince look foolish or... desperate. By the end of the week, half the ladies in the keep will be trying to find that scent, and Aerion will be convinced there's a conspiracy involving every woman he speaks to."
"Dean," you say, leaning back and glancing at your friend with a challenging smile, "I see that look on your face, you have an idea."
Dean takes a slow sip of the Arbor gold, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling as if he's visualizing the layout of the Red Keep. He lets out a thoughtful hum, the kind of sound a man makes when he's calculating exactly how much trouble he can cause without getting executed.
"Well," Dean begins, a slow grin spreading across his face, "Aerion believes he's a dragon, right? He's obsessed with the idea of purity and power. If I recall the stories from Pentos, there's a certain type of incense-very pungent - that smells like sulfur and old leather. If we managed to 'gift' some of that to his chambers, he might start believing his room is actually transforming into a dragon's lair. Or, more likely, he'll think he's being cursed."
Lyonel laughs, a sound that echoes loudly in the vaulted cellar. "Cursing him with smell! It's poetic. The man is already on edge; a bit of sulfur would have him screaming for the Maesters by midnight."
He swirls the wine in his glass, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. "But we'd need someone who can slip into the apartments without being seen. Someone the guards wouldn't question, or someone who knows the shadows better than the lords."
"Why stop at smell?" you ask, your eyes glittering with a light as you lean toward the center of the table. "Let's find something that makes a noise in the middle of the night."
Dean pauses with his goblet halfway to his lips, a slow smile spreading across his face. "A noise. Now we're talking. A phantom in the walls, perhaps? Or something more... organic."
"I like where this is going." Lyonel booms, leaning forward, his presence filling the small room. "A man who's already convinced his room is under biological attack will be halfway to a heart attack if he hears something scratching under his bed. The look on his face would be worth a lordship in the Reach."
Valarr swirls the last of his wine, his expression thoughtful. "If we're going for auditory hallucinations, we need something that sounds plausible but unsettling. A stray cat? Or perhaps a few well-placed mechanical toys from the Free Cities? Dean, did you bring anything from Pentos that makes a noise?"
Dean looks far too pleased with himself. "I might have a few curiosities on my ship. A clockwork bird that screams like a banshee when the wind hits it, for one. Or a set of wind-chimes that sound like whispering voices if you hang them just right."
"The whispering voices," you suggest, a grin tugging at your lips. "Imagine him waking up at three in the morning, convinced the ghosts of the dragons are coming to claim him."
"We will strike tomorrow," you decide, your eyes flashing with a calculating light. "I can distract him and you will get into action."
Dean looks at you with a mix of respect and amusement. "The classic diversion. I love it. I'll spend tomorrow morning prepping the chimes and ensuring they're perfectly tuned to 'Existential Dread'."
Lyonel claps his hands together, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the small cellar. "A masterstroke! While the Prince is preoccupied with your charms-or your insults, more likely - we can slip in and set the stage. I'll keep the guards occupied with a few loud stories and a bottle of my own."
Valarr shifts, moving closer to you. He doesn't say anything at first, but the way he looks at you is heavy with an unspoken admiration. He reaches out, his fingers grazing your arm for a brief, electric second.
"I'll be your shadow." he says, his voice low. "If anything goes wrong, I'll make sure the 'sensible prince' is the one taking the blame."
You look at your makeshift council-the laughing Storm Lord, the clever smuggler, and the devoted prince. The wine has left a warm glow in your chest, and the anticipation of tomorrow's chaos feels better than any vintage from the Arbor.
Lady lets out a long, loud yawn, stretching her paws out across the stone floor as if signaling that the planning session is officially over.
"One more glass of wine before we go," you announce, your voice brimming with energy. "To tomorrow's disaster!"
Lyonel beams, his laughter echoing in the vaulted ceiling as he refills the goblets with a generous pour. "Spoken like a true Targaryen! I'll drink to that. May the gods grant Aerion a very long, very loud night of terror."
The wine is a warm, velvet weight in your stomach, making the dim torchlight of the cellar feel softer and the company more intimate. Dean leans back against a wine rack, looking entirely at ease. "I'll get to work on the tuning as soon as I'm back in my room. I'm thinking of adding a little 'clinking' sound, like chains. Just to add to the atmosphere of a haunted tomb."
Valarr is still close to you, the scent of the Arbor gold mixing with the faint, clean scent of his skin. He doesn't look at the others; his focus is entirely on you.
He offers a small, knowing smile, his mismatched eyes scanning your face.
Lyonel clears his throat loudly, a wide, knowing grin on his face as he looks at Valarr. "Alright, alright, we should probably move. If the King finds us all down here in a wine-soaked huddle, he might think we've started a rebellion of our own."
"Let's move before someone accuses poor Lady of drinking all the wine," you say, glancing down at the pug who is currently snoring with a rhythmic, whistling sound.
Lyonel lets out a bark of laughter, wiping a stray drop of Arbor gold from his beard. "A tragedy of the highest order! The poor beast, framed for the theft of a vintage. We can't have that. To the exits!"
As you reach the junction where the paths split toward the royal apartments, Dean gives you a knowing nod. "I'll be in my room if you need me. I've got a date with some clockwork and a lot of copper wire."
Valarr slows his pace, lingering beside you as the others move ahead. The light of the wall-sconces casts long shadows across his face, highlighting the contrast of his eyes. He reaches out, his hand grazing the small of your back for a fleeting moment, a gesture that feels both protective.
"Get some sleep," he says, his voice a low murmur. "Tomorrow requires a very specific kind of energy. I'll be waiting for you in the morning."
He gives you one last, lingering look - one that speaks of a shared secret - before he turns to head toward his own chambers.
-------------‐---------------
A chorus of sharp, insistent barks jolts you awake. You blink open your eyes to find Lady standing on your chest, her paws planted firmly on your ribs and her face inches from yours. Outside the window, a few morning birds are singing a particularly spirited tune, and Lady has decided that their melodies are a direct challenge to her authority.
"Alright, alright! I'm up!" you groan, gently pushing the pug aside.
Lady lets out one final, triumphant woof and trots toward the door, her tail wagging like a metronome. She knows exactly what today is. She can feel the anticipation in the air, or perhaps she just smells the possibility of more roast beef.
As you finish your preparations, a light knock sounds at your door.
"Y/N?" Valarr's voice is low and smooth from the hallway. "I'm here. The 'assets' have been moved into position, and Dean is currently pretending to be very busy with some ledgers to avoid suspicion. Are you ready to begin the performance?"
You turn to the mirror, adjusting a piece of jewelry. Outside, you hear a soft, patient sigh. Valarr is leaning against the wall, his presence a steady, comforting weight behind the door.
"Take your time" he says, his voice dropping into that low, intimate register that seems reserved only for these private moments. "The 'dragon' is currently occupied with a very loud argument with his servant about the quality of his silk stockings. We have a window of opportunity."
Lady lets out a sharp, impatient bark, as if reminding you that the mission-and the potential for snacks-awaits.
You open the door, stepping out into the hallway. Valarr is standing there, looking every bit the polished prince, though the glint in his mismatched eyes betrays his excitement.
"Perfect," he says, his gaze sweeping over you. "Absolutely perfect. Shall we go find our clown?"
"Let's find him. I'll start with a 'sincere' apology," you say, a wicked glint dancing in your eyes.
Valarr's eyebrows shoot up but he doesn't comment. He decides he just wants to see it.
You find Aerion in the center of his receiving room, his face a mottled purple. He's currently towering over a trembling servant, his finger pointed aggressively at a smudge on a silver platter.
"It's a disgrace!" Aerion bellows. "I am a prince of the blood, not some tavern keep's son! How can you possibly-"
"Prince Aerion!" you interrupt, your voice soft, melodic, and dripping with a carefully crafted vulnerability. You step into the room, your head slightly bowed, your expression one of deep, soulful regret.
Aerion spins around, his eyes narrowing. He looks like a predator scenting a trap, but your posture is so perfectly unassuming that he pauses, his chest still heaving from his outburst.
"What do you want now, Y/N?" he demands, though the volume of his voice drops. "Have you come to unleash your beast upon my carpets again?"
You take a slow, tentative step forward, clasping your hands in front of you. "I've spent the past few days reflecting on my behavior, cousin. I realize my words were... uncalled for. I was carried away by the excitement of my return, and I truly regret the distress I caused you."
Aerion freezes. He looks at you, then at Valarr - who is wearing a mask of grave, supportive concern - and then back to you. A flicker of confusion crosses his face. He's so used to conflict and arrogance that a sincere apology like a foreign language.
"You... regret it?" he asks, his voice sounding strangely small.
"I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me," you add, your voice soft and fragile. You lower your eyes, the picture of a repentant cousin seeking peace.
Aerion stands motionless. He looks at you as if you've suddenly grown a second head. The sheer unexpectedness of the submission seems to paralyze him. He's a man who thrives on conflict; he knows how to fight, how to sneer, and how to dominate. But he has no defense against a plea for forgiveness. He shifts his weight, his gaze darting toward Valarr, searching for some sign that this is a joke.
"Forgive you," Aerion repeats, his voice raspy. He lets out a sharp, sudden laugh that sounds more like a bark. "You expect me to simply forget the insults? The public humiliation? The... the biological warfare?"
He looks down at Lady, who is currently staring at him with wide, vacant eyes, her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth. The sight is so profoundly ridiculous that it undercuts the tension of his anger.
"I suppose," Aerion says, his chin lifting with a flash of his usual arrogance, "that as a Prince of the Blood, it is only fitting that I show mercy to those beneath me. Your remorse is... noted."
He looks almost smug now, convinced that he's won a moral victory and that you've finally recognized his superiority. He's so wrapped up in his own ego that he's completely forgotten why you're there.
"However," he adds, stepping closer, "do not think this means I've forgotten. One more slip, one more 'joke' at my expense, and I'll have that dog banished to the Wall."
"I will make sure that nothing happens. Thank you," you say, your voice a whisper of sweetness. "I just wish for us to be a united family."
Before he can react, you step forward and wrap your arms around him in a sudden, tight hug.
Aerion freezes. He becomes as rigid as a statue, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. He looks like a man who's just been touched by a venomous snake and is waiting for the paralysis to set in. He's clearly repulsed, but the sheer audacity of the gesture-and the fact that it's done in front of witnesses-leaves him momentarily speechless.
Valarr lets out a soft, choked sound, quickly masking it as a cough. He's watching the scene with a look of absolute, suppressed glee.
You pull back just enough to look Aerion in the eye, wearing a smile of pure, artificial warmth.
Aerion pushes you away with a sharp, jerky movement, smoothing his tunic with an expression of profound disgust. "Enough of this. Your sentimentality is as tedious as your dog."
He turns his back to you, his voice regaining arrogant edge. "Now leave. I have matters of state to attend to, and I've wasted enough of my morning on this... reconciliation."
As you begin to back out of the room, you catch a glimpse of the door behind him. A shadow flickers in the hallway-just for a second-accompanied by a faint, metallic tink. It's a signal. Dean has slipped in and out.
"Of course, cousin. We'll leave you to your important work," you say, giving a polite, sweeping curtsy that borders on mockery.
You step back out of the receiving room, closing the heavy oak doors behind you with a soft, deliberate click. The moment the wood meets the frame, the mask of the repentant princess vanishes. You lean against the wall, a silent, triumphant laugh shaking your shoulders.
Valarr is already grinning, his mismatched eyes dancing with a dark kind of glee. He leans in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "The look on his face when you hugged him... I think he genuinely believed he was being poisoned by touch. You're a menace."
Lady lets out a short, sharp bark, as if urging you both forward.
"The signal was clear," Valarr notes, glancing down the hall. "Dean's work is done. Now we just have to wait for the clock to strike three."
As you walk away from the apartments, you spot Dean leaning casually against a pillar some distance down the gallery. He catches your eye and gives a subtle, two-finger salute, his expression one of utter confidence. He looks like a man who's just placed a winning bet on a race.
"So," Valarr says, his shoulder brushing yours as you move toward the gardens to pass the time. "How do you want to spend the next few hours? We could find some more wine, or perhaps we could find a spot where we can watch the court as the rumors spread"
"I think the spot with wine will be a wonderful combination," you say, glancing toward the gardens with a smile.
Valarr lets out a soft, appreciative laugh. "Your appetite for both mischief and Arbor gold is truly admirable."
The two of you make your way toward a secluded terrace overlooking the inner courtyard, where a small table and a pitcher of chilled wine already wait likely courtesy of a very well-paid servant or a helpful Dean. Lady trots ahead, her little tail wagging as she claims a velvet cushion for herself, settling in for the long wait.
As you pour the wine, the sun begins to dip lower in the sky, casting long, golden shadows across the red stone of the keep. The atmosphere is peaceful, a stark contrast to the storm you've just brewed in Aerion's chambers.
Valarr leans back, his gaze drifting toward the high windows of the royal wing. "The perfume rumors are peaking," he notes. "I saw three different ladies of the court whispering about 'the scent of Pentosi longing' near the fountains"
He turns to you, his mismatched eyes softening as he holds out his glass for a toast. "To the quiet before the storm. I suspect by tomorrow morning, our cousin will be demanding an audience with the Grand Maester to discuss his 'curse'."
"To us and our wonderful collaboration," you say, clinking your glass against his.
Valarr drinks, his gaze never leaving yours. The wine is cool, but the look in his eyes is warm, almost heavy. He sets the goblet down and leans in, the space between you shrinking until you can feel the warmth radiating from him. He reaches out, his thumb grazing the back of your hand. It's a slow touch, one that carries more weight than a hundred formal bows.
Lady lets out a soft, snoring sound from her cushion, completely oblivious to the sudden charge between you.
"I suspect," Valarr continues, "that you're going to be the most dangerous thing to happen to this court in a generation. And I find myself wanting to be right beside you when the walls finally start to shake."
The sun has nearly vanished now, leaving the sky a bruised purple. In the distance, the first bells of the evening begin to toll, marking the time as the keep settles into a deceptive quiet. Somewhere, a few floors up, Aerion is likely preparing for bed, entirely unaware that his world is about to become a very noisy, very smelly nightmare.
"I think I can arrange that," you say, meeting his gaze with a look of quiet understanding. "I'll make sure you're always included in my scheming."
Valarr's smile widens, a glimmer of genuine warmth reaching his eyes. He doesn't pull his hand away, instead letting his fingers linger against yours for a moment longer. "I'm holding you to that. I've spent far too many years being the 'perfect' prince. I think I've developed a taste for your chaos"
Lady lets out a long, rattling snore, her head lolling off the velvet cushion. The sound breaks the tension, and Valarr lets out a soft chuckle, finally withdrawing his hand to finish his wine.
"The sun's gone," he observes, glancing at the deepening purple of the sky. "We should probably vanish before someone wonders why the Princess and the Heir are hiding in a gardens whole afternoon."
"Sleep well tonight," Valarr adds, his voice dropping back into that low, intimate murmur. "And keep your ears open. I have a feeling the early hours of tomorrow are going to be very loud."
"Or maybe we'll sneak out in the night and see together our work of art," you suggest, your voice humming with a kind of excitement.
Valarr pauses, his hand still near yours. He looks at you, and for a moment, the polished prince vanishes, replaced by a man who is genuinely tempted by the thrill of the risk. A slow smile curls his lips.
"Sneaking through the keep at three in the morning is a wonderful way to get detained by the Gold Cloaks," he says, though his eyes say he's already sold on the idea. "But since we've already committed the crime of psychological warfare, I suppose a little trespassing is a minor addition."
He leans in a fraction closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that sends a spark through the air. "Meet me by the statue of the Warrior in the East Gallery. Three bells past midnight. Wear something dark, and for the love of the gods, make sure the dog is quiet."
You let out a soft laugh, giving him a playful pat on the arm before finally turning to head back to your room.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of anticipation. You feed Lady one last treat, ensuring she's well-sated and sleepy, then slip into a simple, dark dress that blends into the shadows. You wait, counting the hours, the silence of your room only amplifying the excitement.
When the clock finally strikes the appointed hour, you slip out of your door, moving like a ghost through the dimly lit halls. The keep is heavy with sleep, the only sounds the distant footsteps of a lone guard and the occasional creak of old timber.
As you reach the statue of the Warrior, a silhouette emerges from the darkness. Valarr is waiting, dressed in a deep charcoal tunic, his mismatched eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
"You're punctual," he whispers, stepping closer to you. "Ready for the show?
Valarr gives a small nod. You both move through the corridors like shadows, pressing your backs against the cold stone walls whenever a torch flickers or the distant clank of a guard's armor echoes through the hall. The silence of the Red Keep at this hour is oppressive, making every breath feel loud and every heartbeat feel like a drum.
As you approach the royal wing, a faint, acrid smell begins to drift through the air. It's the smell Dean promised-a sharp, pungent scent of old volcanic ash and brimstone. It's subtle, but enough to make the hallway feel uneasy.
You and Valarr crouch behind a heavy tapestry just outside Aerion's double doors. For a few minutes, there's nothing but the heavy silence of the night. Then, a sudden, metallic tink resonates from inside the room, followed by a series of low, rhythmic whispers. They aren't human voices, but the wind-chimes Dean tuned, creating a ghostly, overlapping drone that sounds like a dozen spirits debating in the dark.
A sudden crash echoes from within.
"Who's there?!" Aerion's voice shatters the silence, sounding high-pitched and panicked. "Show yourself! Guards! Guards!"
There's the sound of something heavy being thrown-likely a lamp or a vase-and the whispers grow louder, echoing off the stone walls.
"I can see you!" Aerion screams, his voice cracking. "I know you're here! The dragons... they've come back for me!"
Valarr leans closer to you, his shoulder pressing against yours, a stifled laugh vibrating in his chest. He looks at you, his mismatched eyes wide with delight.
"He sounds absolutely terrified. This is perfect," you whisper, a wide, satisfied grin stretching across your face.
Inside the room, the chaos escalates. There's a loud thud, followed by the sound of Aerion stumbling over furniture. The ghostly chimes continue their rhythmic, overlapping drone, and the acrid scent of sulfur seems to intensify, leaking through the gaps in the door.
"Be gone! I command you!" Aerion screams, his voice now reaching a pitch of pure hysteria. "I am the dragon! I am the blood of Old Valyria! You cannot haunt me!"
Valarr lets out a quiet breath of a laugh, his face now pressing firmly against your shoulder in the narrow hallway. He looks up at you with an expression of sheer admiration, his mismatched eyes gleaming in the dim light.
"I believe we've officially broken his spirit," Valarr murmurs. "The transition from 'arrogant prince' to 'man fighting invisible ghosts' took less than one week. I've never seen anything quite so satisfying."
From the end of the corridor, the distant sound of shouting guards begins to grow louder. They've finally heard him.
"We should probably vanish," Valarr says, though he doesn't move immediately. He lingers for a second, his gaze dropping to your lips before returning to your eyes. "Unless you want to stay and watch him try to fight a wind-chime?"
"What if we use secret corridors?" you whisper, a playful glint in your eyes.
Valarr pauses, his gaze shifting from the door to you. A slow, appreciative smile spreads across his face. He seems almost proud of the suggestion, as if you're finally mastering the art of Red Keep navigation.
"Of course," he says. "I nearly forgot you've already had a tour of the 'veins' of this castle."
He reaches out, taking your hand and guiding you toward a heavy oak panel disguised as a decorative wall carving. With a precise press of a hidden latch, the panel clicks open with a soft, oiled slide. The air that wafts out is cool and smells of old dust and ancient stone-the kind of smell that only exists in the places where the royal family hides their secrets.
As you both slip inside and the panel closes behind you, the screams from Aerion's room become muffled, sounding like they're coming from another world.
Valarr lets go of your hand, but he stays close, his presence filling the narrow, dim passage. The only light comes from the small, flickering lanterns he's already prepared.
"This is the best part," Valarr says, his voice echoing slightly. "We can practically hear his sanity slipping away, but we're safely tucked away in the dark. It's the perfect vantage point for a victory lap."
He looks at you, the mismatched colors of his eyes shimmering in the low light. "I must admit, I've never felt more at home in this palace than I do right now, sneaking through the walls with you."
You lean in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him close in a quiet embrace.
Valarr freezes for a heartbeat, his breath hitching in the stillness of the tunnel. Then, he relaxes into the hug, his arms winding around you and pulling you flush against him.
"You're dangerous" he breathes, his voice barely a murmur. "I spent years believing that the only way to survive this keep was to be invisible. But you make me want to break every rule I followed my entire life."
He doesn't pull away. Instead, he tightens his hold on you, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your head, pulling you deeper into the quiet sanctuary of the walls. For a moment, the screaming of Aerion and the chaos of the court feel like they belong to another lifetime.
The distant sound of the guards' boots grows fainter as they move toward Aerion's room, leaving the two of you alone in the dusty dark.
Valarr pulls back just enough to look at you, a small, tender smile playing on his lips. "If we stay here any longer, I might forget that we're supposed to be sneaking back to our rooms. I might just decide that this tunnel is a better place to live than the royal apartments."
Valarr lets out a soft, contented breath, his arms tightening around you. The narrow space of the secret passage, once just a means of escape, now feels like a private world. The air is still and cool, smelling of old stone and the faint, lingering scent of the Arbor wine they'd shared earlier.
"I suspect the guards are currently trying to convince Aerion that there are no ghosts in his room," Valarr whispers, his chin resting atop your head. "Which means we have a few precious minutes of absolute silence."
He shifts slightly, sliding one hand down to lock fingers with yours. The contrast of his mismatched eyes is barely visible in the amber glow of the lantern, but his gaze is unmistakable.
"I've spent so much of my life wondering if I was alone in my boredom," he admits, his voice barely audible. "The court is a play, and everyone has a role to perform. I've played the heir perfectly. But with you... I feel like I can actually stop acting."
He pulls back just a fraction, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "You've brought more than just chaos into this keep, Y/N. You've brought something that feels... real."
Valarr's expression softens, his gaze lingering on yours with an intensity that makes the small, dusty corridor feel like the only place in the world. He lets out a quiet, shaky breath, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw again.
"Most people in this city spend their lives trying to avoid the kind of trouble you invite with a wink. I think I'm becoming addicted to it."
He pulls you closer, his chin brushing against your temple. The silence of the tunnels settles around you, broken only by the distant, fading echoes of Aerion's meltdown. The thrill of the prank is still there, but it's been overtaken by a different, more subtle kind of emotion.
"I wonder what they'll say tomorrow," Valarr says, his voice low and vibrating against your ear. "The Prince of the Blood, reduced to a shivering wreck by a few chimes and a pug. It'll be the talk of the keep for a month."
He pulls back slightly, his mismatched eyes searching yours, his expression turning a bit more serious. "And when the dust settles, and the laughter dies down... I hope you're still planning on including me in the next act."
"You're stuck with me, Valarr," you whisper, a small, teasing smile playing on your lips as you look up at him.
Valarr lets out a soft, genuine laugh, the sound echoing slightly in the narrow stone passage. He doesn't pull away; instead, he rests his forehead against yours, his breathing steady and warm.
"I suspect that's the most terrifying thing anyone's ever told me," he says, his mismatched eyes shimmering with affection. "And yet, I find I'm perfectly content with my fate."
He lingers there for a moment, the silence of the tunnel wrapping around the two of you. The distant sounds of the guards' confusion have faded, leaving only the quiet intimacy of the dark. The scent of the old keep-dust, stone, and the faint, lingering sweetness of the wine-surrounds you, making the world outside the secret walls feel insignificant.
Valarr pulls back just an inch, his thumb tracing the line of your cheek. "We should probably return before the dawn. If we're caught now, even my status as heir might not save us from my father's temper. He's a man of discipline, and sneaking through the walls at four in the morning is... hardly disciplined."
He gives you a knowing look, his expression shifting back to that mixture of prince and partner-in-crime.
"I might know a shortcut to the chambers" you whisper, a playful spark in your eyes.
Valarr raises an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "A shortcut? You've had an hour of sleep and a bottle of Arbor gold. I'm not sure I trust your sense of direction right now."
You don't answer with words. Instead, you take his hand and lead him further into the darkness, navigating a series of narrow turns and hidden alcoves that most of the palace residents have forgotten. You're not really sure if this is the right path, but you don't want to end the day yet.
The passage narrows, the walls pressing in until you're practically chest-to-chest. The silence is absolute here, save for the soft rhythm of your shared breathing.
You stop abruptly in front of a small, inconspicuous wooden hatch in the ceiling. With a coordinated effort, you both push it upward, allowing a sliver of moonlight to pierce the gloom. You scramble up first, pulling Valarr after you, and find yourselves in a small, secluded balcony tucked behind a heavy curtain of ivy.
It's a tiny, forgotten space that overlooks the courtyard, and more importantly, it's only a few yards from your own window.
Valarr stands beside you, the night breeze tossing his silver hair. He looks at you, his mismatched eyes reflecting the starlight. "A shortcut indeed. I think we walked through the half of the Keep before we got here "
"Hey, it's not my fault the corridors in the night are tricky"
Valarr laughs, perhaps a little bit too loud, but in that moment, he doesn't care "Maybe you just did that to mislead me and you are a spy who's planning to take the throne from me". He says with a smile, eyes shimmering with something indescribable.
"If my plan was to get you out of the picture, the future of our house would fall. Could you imagine if Aerion or Daeron became king? " you say, your voice dropping to a playful, conspiratorial tone. " There would be nothing left of the country. We'd have to run away to Pentos. Besides, it would be a waste to to get rid of a such promising and handsome ruler. "
Valarr lets out a soft, genuine laugh. He looks at you, his eyes reflecting a mixture of amusement and a sudden, sharp clarity. The thought of the realm under Aerion's unstable hand is a reality he's lived with for years, but hearing you frame it as a reason to keep him around brings a different kind of light to his expression.
"A truly selfless motive," he teases, though he steps closer, his presence warming the cool night air. "Saving the Seven Kingdoms from the 'dragon' by keeping me in the loop. I'm touched by your civic duty."
He reaches out, his hand lingering on the small of your back, drawing you slightly closer to the edge of the balcony. The city below is a sea of darkness, punctuated only by the distant, flickering torches of the city watch.
"The thought of fleeing to Pentos with you, however..." He pauses, his voice turning low and thoughtful. "That sounds like a far more appealing prospect than ruling a kingdom of ashes."
He looks at you, his gaze drifting to your lips. "But for now, I think we've done enough damage for one night. The sun will be up soon, and I suspect the morning reports from Aerion's chambers will be the highlight of the King's breakfast."
You lean in and press a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek. "Then I have to make sure that my future King is well," you whisper, your voice teasing but tender. "Which means you must rest. Goodnight, Valarr."
Valarr's breath catches, and for a moment, he seems completely spellbound. He stands there, the moonlight catching the silver of his hair and the mismatched colors of his eyes, looking as though you've just rewritten his entire world in a single gesture.
He lets out a soft, shaky exhale, his gaze searching yours with an intensity that feels almost tangible. "You're going to be the death of me" he says, though the smile on his lips tells a different story. "But I suspect I'll enjoy every second of it."
-----------------------------
Let me know if you want a part three!!
