𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐦 ┅ 𝖵𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗋 𝖳𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗒𝖾𝗇 & 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋
𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬, 𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭. 𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺, 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦.
NOTE: Someone get my pook a mask pls he cannot die! whatever Camie said about Hawks dying is me to Valarr he’s a total snack.
﹙𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭﹚
Valarr Targaryen had already decided this would be the worst part of the afternoon.
No not the formal greetings, not the stiff smiles, not even the endless titles of lords he could not care about that tangled in his ears until they sounded like nonsense. He could endure all of that with practiced ease, shoulders straight, expression composed, every inch the prince he had been raised to be.
No.
It was the new babe.
He stood beside his parents in his uncles solar of the Red Keep, hands slightly clammy clasped behind his back, listening as Maekar Targaryen and his wife were announced. The doors opened, and in swept heat from the late summer air, and with it, noise. A child’s cry.
High, pleased babbling echoed against the stone walls.
Valarr’s spine went rigid.
Maekar entered first, tall and imposing, his wife followed, smiling warmly, and in her arms.
Valarr blinked.
You were smaller than he expected.
Wrapped in pale silks, white threaded with faint red embroidery, you were all soft curves and bright, curious violet eyes. Your hair was fine and light, silver-blond catching the sun pouring in through the high windows. You made an indignant sound when your mother shifted her grip, little hands fisting in protest before settling again.
The adults exchanged greetings. Polite words, and familiar courtesies.
Valarr barely heard them.
He was staring at the little dragon wrapped in her mother's embrace.
“You remember my brother, Prince Baelor, of course,” Maekar was saying, gesturing to Valarr’s father. “And this is his wife, and his son.”
Introductions continued, and then.
“And this is our youngest,” your mother said, voice warm with unmistakable pride. “Our daughter.”
She tilted you slightly forward, inviting admiration.
Valarr swallowed.
You stared back at him.
Your gaze fixed on him with startling intensity for someone so small, eyes wide and unblinking. A slow smile spread across your face, gummy and delighted, as if you’d found something you very much approved of.
Valarr had the absurd thought that you looked…pleased. As though he were a novelty.
“Well,” Baelor chuckled, “she seems like a lively one.”
“She always is,” Maekar’s wife replied fondly. “Especially when there are new faces.”
Your attention did not waver. Your small hand lifted, fingers opening and closing in a clumsy, curious motion.
Valarr shifted his weight.
This was fine. Perfectly fine. You would be admired, cooed over, perhaps passed to a septa or attendant. He would smile politely from a distance. That was the proper order of things.
He relaxed, just a fraction.
And then Baelor said, far too lightly, “Valarr.”
Valarr felt dread bloom instantly.
“Yes, Father?” His words coming out to meek for a prince of his stature.
“Why don’t you greet your cousin properly?”
Before Valarr could respond, before he could so much as draw breath to suggest an alternative, Maekar’s wife laughed softly.
“Oh, would you like to hold her?”
The room seemed to tilt.
“I-” Valarr began, his mind urging him to refuse his uncles good wife.
It was too late.
You were already being transferred.
Your mother stepped closer, carefully placing you into Valarr’s arms with practiced ease, as if handing over a bundle of linens instead of a living, breathing child. Your weight was unfamiliar, warm, solid, and alarmingly fragile.
Valarr froze.
His arms locked in place, instinctively stiff, elbows tucked awkwardly at his sides. He stared down at you in open panic, acutely aware of how many eyes were on him.
You blinked up at him.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then you reached for him.
Your tiny hand latched onto the front of his doublet with startling strength, fingers curling into the embroidered fabric just below his collarbone. Valarr inhaled sharply.
“Oh,” Baelor said, amused. “She’s taken a liking to you son.”
Valarr did not move, and you tugged harder.
The Targaryen crest, three-headed dragon molded from steel, pulled under your grip. Valarr watched in horror as the stitching around it strained.
“I think-” he said faintly, “I think she has to strong a hold on me.”
You made a pleased sound, babbling happily as you tightened your grip and brought the emblem closer to your face, examining it with grave seriousness. Your other hand joined the first, fingers patting and scrunching the sigil as though testing its texture.
Someone laughed.
“Careful,” Maekar said dryly. “She’s strong.”
Valarr believed it.
He looked up helplessly at his mother, who was smiling far too serenely.
“Support her head Valarr.” she reminded gently.
Valarr shifted one hand, too fast, then stopped again, terrified he’d done it wrong. You wobbled slightly, offended, and let out a sharp sound of protest.
Valarr’s heart leapt into his throat.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted instinctively, as if you could understand him.
You stared at him, then promptly shoved a fist into your mouth and chewed on it, apparently satisfied.
The adults laughed again.
Valarr flushed.
You, meanwhile, were delighted.
Your attention drifted back to his chest, to the shining emblem that had caught your eye in the first place. With unwavering determination, you tugged again, harder this time.
The thread held, barely.
“Oh-no, no,” Valarr muttered under his breath. “You cannot-”
You could.
With a triumphant little noise, you yanked, and Valarr felt the stitching give way slightly beneath your grip. Not fully torn-but loosened enough to make his stomach drop.
“She’s stealing from you,” Baelor boomed in laughter.
Valarr looked up sharply. “She’s taking the emblem father.”
“It seems fair,” Maekar said. “She is a Targaryen after all.”
Your mother laughed softly, eyes shining. “She’s always liked shiny things.”
Valarr looked down at you again.
You were beaming now, utterly content, clutching the piece of metal like a prize you’d won through sheer will. Your chubby fingers were red from gripping it so tightly.
He should have handed you back.
He should have insisted.
Instead, something strange happened.
You leaned closer, entirely unprompted, and pressed your forehead briefly against his chest, a clumsy, affectionate bump. Then you sighed, a soft, sleepy sound, and settled.
Still holding the sigil.
Valarr went very still.
The room seemed to fade at the edges.
You were warm, and real. Breathing softly against him, your tiny weight anchored in his arms as if you belonged there. His panic dulled into something quieter. His awareness heightened, careful not to drop you.
You trusted him.
For reasons entirely beyond his comprehension, you trusted him.
“Well,” his mother said softly, “I don’t think she intends to let go.”
Valarr swallowed.
“I-I don’t think I can move,” he admitted.
Maekar’s wife smiled at him, something knowing in her expression. “You are doing just fine my prince.”
You shifted slightly, adjusting your grip, fingers still curled in the dragon’s heads stitched over his heart.
Valarr thought, distantly, that he would remember this.
The weight of you.
And how, for the first time that day, he hadn’t minded holding onto a babe.
Valarr realized, belatedly, that the problem was no longer holding you.
The problem was that no one seemed inclined to help him stop.
You had settled fully now, cheek pressed against his chest, breath warm through the layers of his doublet. Your fingers remained tangled stubbornly in the loosened embroidery, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for you to keep hold of him.
Valarr stood there, acutely aware of every inch of himself, his posture, his breathing, the tension in his arms. He had never been more conscious of the fact that he was alive and responsible for something far smaller and more fragile than himself.
“I think,” he said carefully, after a long moment, “she is…asleep.”
You were not, not quite, but your eyelids had drooped, lashes resting against flushed cheeks, your mouth slack in the way of someone very close to drifting off. One hand still clutched the sigil. The other had gone lax, resting against his collarbone.
“She does that,” your mother said cooed. “Decides she’s comfortable and refuses to be moved.”
Valarr attempted to shift his weight again, just enough to ease the strain in his arms.
You responded immediately.
A small, displeased sound escaped you, sharp and indignant, and your fingers tightened. Valarr froze mid-motion, heart hammering.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, absurdly earnest.
This time, you opened your eyes.
They were a pale, bright violet, too clear, too knowing for someone so young. They focused on his face, studying him with an intensity that made Valarr’s breath catch.
Then you smiled.
A small, satisfied curve of your mouth, as if to say: There. Don’t do that again.
Baelor laughed outright.
“Oh, she’s clever,” he said. “Look at her. She’s got you trapped.”
Valarr shot his father a look that was half plea, half accusation.
“She’s-she’s holding my clothes,” he said, as if that explained everything.
Maekar stepped closer, studying the situation with a measured eye. He reached out, fingers brushing gently against your hand.
You did not release the sigil.
Instead, you drew it closer to yourself, little brows furrowing in displeasure.
Maekar paused.
“Well,” he said slowly, “she’s claimed it.”
Valarr stared at him. “She cannot have it.”
“Why not?” Maekar asked mildly. “It’s hers as much as yours.”
Valarr opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He had no answer that wouldn’t sound ridiculous.
Your mother hid a smile behind her hand.
“She’s never taken to strangers like this,” she said. “Usually she fusses.”
Valarr swallowed.
“I’m not-” He stopped himself. “I mean, I don’t-”
He trailed off, at a loss.
You shifted again, settling more securely in his arms. Your head tucked just beneath his chin now, breath puffing softly against his throat. Valarr stiffened instinctively, then forced himself to relax, lowering his head just enough to keep you steady.
He could feel the warmth of you through the fabric. The slow, steady rhythm of your breathing.
Something quieted inside him.
“Valarr,” his mother said gently, stepping closer. “You may hand her back now if you like.”
He hesitated.
He did want to, or he truly did. His arms ached, and he was painfully aware of how ridiculous he must look, standing there, rigid and wide-eyed, holding a baby who had apparently decided to take possession of him.
And yet, he looked down at you again.
Your fingers had loosened slightly now, grip slack but still determined, the metal sigil in between your touch. One foot stuck out from the folds of your linen enclosure, kicking faintly with contentment.
You trusted him, completely. Like how a small cat would nap near its siblings.
The thought landed with surprising weight.
“I think,” Valarr said slowly, “she’ll be upset.”
As if to prove his point, his mother reached out carefully, attempting to slide your fingers free from the the sigil.
You woke fully at once.
Your grip tightened. Your face scrunched, and a sharp, offended cry burst from you, loud enough to echo off the stone walls.
Valarr startled.
“Oh-Seven-” He pulled you closer without thinking, one hand coming up to support your back. “No, no-please don’t-”
Your cry cut off mid-sound.
You blinked and sniffled.
Then settled again, apparently appeased, cheek pressed firmly against his chest.
The room went silent.
Then Baelor laughed again, softer this time.
“Well,” he said, “it seems she’s made her choice.”
Valarr stared straight ahead, cheeks burning.
“I didn’t-” he began weakly.
Maekar gave a low huff that might have been amusement. “She’s stubborn,” he said. “Takes after her brothers I reckon.”
“Gods help us all,” your mother murmured fondly.
Valarr felt oddly proud.
The realization startled him.
He had done nothing to earn it. He had simply…existed. And yet, something about the way you clung to him, unbothered by rank or expectation, made him feel, as ridiculous as it was, chosen.
Minutes passed. Conversation resumed around him, drifting to safer topics. Valarr remained still, barely daring to breathe too deeply in case it disturbed you.
He adjusted his grip minutely, learning your weight, how to support you without startling you. The tension in his shoulders eased by degrees.
Eventually, your breathing slowed again, deeper now, unmistakably asleep.
Your mother watched closely.
“She’s truly out,” she said softly. “Now might be our chance.”
Valarr nodded, careful.
He shifted, slow and deliberate, loosening your grip finger by finger with infinite patience. You stirred but did not wake, lips pursing briefly before relaxing again.
The sigil slipped free at last.
Valarr exhaled, relieved.
But when he began to pass you back, something unexpected happened.
Your hand shot out again.
This time, instead of grabbing the piece of metal, your fingers curled around his.
Valarr froze.
The contact was brief, and clumsy, but it sent a strange jolt through him. Your grip was weak, barely there, but the intent behind it was unmistakable.
Don’t go.
He looked down at you, heart doing something uncomfortable and unfamiliar.
Your mother paused, watching the moment with quiet interest.
“Oh dear...she’s going to be a handful,” she said softly.
Valarr managed a breathless laugh. “I can tell.”
Eventually—carefully, gently—you were transferred back into your mother’s arms. You protested faintly, a soft sound of displeasure, before settling again against her shoulder.
Valarr stepped back, arms suddenly empty.
The absence felt…strange.
He smoothed his doublet automatically, eyes flicking to the loose threads that once connected the metal symbol of his house. The sigil sat askew now.
He didn’t fix it.
“Well,” Baelor said, clapping a hand lightly on Valarr’s shoulder, “you’ve survived.”
Valarr nodded, still staring at you.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I think I have.”
As your family prepared to depart, Maekar paused beside him.
“She likes you,” Maekar said, matter-of-fact.
Valarr glanced at him, startled. “She is but a babe.”
Maekar’s mouth twitched. “Even so.”
Valarr looked at the dragonian symbol in his hands, then he lifted it up towards his uncle, "perhaps she might search for this when she awakes."
Maekar slowly took the sigil from the young boy, thanking him quietly.
They left soon after, the solar returning to its usual stillness. Valarr remained where he was long after the doors closed, fingers curling unconsciously where yours had been.
He looked down at his chest, the lack of the dragon symbol apparent.
Valarr thought, with quiet certainty, that he would never forget this.
And though he did not yet know why, he suspected it would matter.
—
The journey from Summerhall to the Red Keep was loud with celebration, though none of it felt particularly official to you, only familiar.
Your father indulged you shamelessly.
When you lingered too long admiring the view from a rise in the road, he ordered the caravan slowed. When you expressed even mild interest in a ribbon from a passing merchant, it appeared in your hands before the day was done. He listened when you spoke, smiled when you laughed, and waved off any suggestion that you were being spoiled.
“She’s allowed,” Maekar said flatly, daring anyone to disagree.
Your brothers hovered like they always did.
Daeron walked at your left, satchel of wine in hand. He was relaxed but watchful, ready with a joke or a steadying hand. Aerion stayed closer than necessary, sharp-eyed and territorial, correcting servants before they could fumble and scowling whenever someone stared too long.
“She doesn’t need all this,” you said at one point, gesturing to yourself and at the attention.
“She absolutely does,” Aerion replied. “And more.”
Attendants fussed endlessly.
Your hair was brushed and rebrushed. Your sleeves adjusted. Your jewelry inspected, removed, returned. At one point, an older attendant fastened a small trinket at your neckline, a simple piece of metal sewn into a ribbon, shaped like the three-headed dragon of house Targaryen.
You touched it absently, as you always did.
Your favorite.
No one remembered where it had come from. You certainly didn’t. It had simply…always been yours it seemed. You liked the way the jagged metal felt beneath your fingers, worn slightly dull with time. It calmed you.
Behind it all, your mother watched.
She said little, but her gaze was sharp and measuring, tracking every indulgence from the attendants. She saw how easily you were loved, and how easily that love might become leverage.
And quietly, without your knowledge, she decided.
You would be betrothed to Valarr Targaryen. for why should her daughter, beloved by the realm, settle for anything other than the heir of the heir.
—
Trumpets announced your arrival.
The Red Keep rose before you, pale stone glowing in the afternoon sun. Courtiers gathered, and servants hurried.
You felt it, even if you didn’t flinch.
Your father rested a hand briefly at your back. Your brothers closed in slightly. The attendants fluttered, whispering reminders.
Inside the keep, Valarr Targaryen was being given the vaguest instruction of his life.
“Be attentive,” his mother told him calmly. “She is important.”
Important could mean anything.
Valarr smoothed his doublet, fingers brushing the sigil at his chest out of habit. The old one had been replaced many years ago, but his hand still went there without thinking.
“You’ve met her before,” Baelor added, almost as an afterthought. “Once.”
Valarr looked up sharply. “I have?”
Baelor smiled faintly. “She was very small.”
The memory struck like heat.
Tiny hands, the warm weight. The dragon tugged loose beneath her grip.
Valarr went still.
“I remember,” he said quietly.
—
You entered the hall with sunlight caught in your hair, laughter soft on your lips as Daeron murmured something in your ear. You looked unguarded, and entirely yourself.
Valarr saw you immediately.
And then he saw it.
The trinket at your neckline.
The dragon.
Not the polished sigils worn by courtiers, but a small, slightly worn, metallic mold, attached with a silk bow and silver chains.
Valarr’s breath caught.
His gaze dropped without permission, tracking the familiar shape, the way the ribbon and chains pulled ever so slightly at the edges.
You noticed his stare and followed it down, fingers lifting automatically to the trinket.
“Oh,” you said lightly. “This?”
You rubbed the embroidery between thumb and forefinger, absent, affectionate.
“Well, my prince, I’ve always liked it. ever since I was a child.” you continued. “I don’t remember where it’s from. It’s just…mine.”
Just like that.
Your fingers curled around it.
Valarr felt as though the room tilted, the same familiar feeling from when he held you as a boy all those years ago.
—
Conversation carried on around you, but Valarr heard very little of it. His attention stayed fixed on your hands, on the unconscious way you held the sigil when you laughed, when you listened, when you grew thoughtful.
At one point, you leaned closer to him to inspect the one on his chest.
Your fingers brushed over the smooth metal.
The motion was instinctive, and terribly familiar.
Valarr’s pulse jumped.
Years ago, you had done this exact thing, clutched the dragon over his heart with all the certainty of someone who knew what they wanted and refused to let go.
You did it now without realizing.
Valarr swallowed hard.
“You favor that trinket,” he said carefully.
You smiled at him. “I suppose I do. It makes me feel safe.”
The word struck deeper than it had any right to.
—
Your mother noticed.
She watched Valarr’s expression shifted, how his composure cracked just enough to let something genuine through. She saw the way he looked at you as if seeing a memory made flesh.
She said nothing, although she didn’t need to.
Your father further discussed something Daeron said, while Aerion shot Valarr a warning glance from across the table.
And you, utterly unaware, tilted your head toward Valarr, curiosity bright.
“You’re very quiet,” you observed. “Is court always like this?”
Valarr smiled faintly.
“Not usually,” he said. “I don’t think it’s ever been quite like this.”
Your fingers tightened on the dragon again.
Valarr knew then, with quiet certainty, that this was no coincidence.
You had found him once before, And somehow, you had found him again.
—
Valarr told himself it was coincidence the first time.
The Red Keep was enormous, after all, vast halls and endless corridors, gardens that folded in on themselves, staircases that led nowhere and everywhere at once. It was entirely reasonable that paths might cross. Entirely natural.
He repeated this to himself as he rounded the corner of the eastern gardens and nearly collided with you.
You stopped short just in time, skirts swaying, breath slightly quickened as though you’d been moving fast.
“Oh,” you began, then blinked. “My prince.”
Valarr straightened instinctively, his court etiquette snapping into place before he could stop it.
“Princess,” he greeted.
You rolled your eyes immediately.
“Please don’t,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “I was trying to escape that.”
He followed your gaze.
Daeron and Aerion stood several paces behind you, mid-argument, clearly in the midst of deciding who was more responsible for whatever irritation had driven you off. Daeron gestured animatedly; Aerion’s arms were crossed, expression sharp.
Valarr’s lips twitched.
“I take it they’re the cause of your flight.”
“They always are,” you said lightly. “One of them decided I needed guarding inside the Red Keep of all places.”
“An unforgivable offense,” Valarr agreed playfully.
Your laughter surprised him.
It was bright, and it eased something tight in his chest. You shifted your weight, fingers lifting unconsciously to the dragon trinket at your neckline, rubbing the worn thing between thumb and forefinger.
Valarr noticed.
“I won’t keep you,” he said, though he made no move to leave. “Unless you’d prefer my company to theirs.”
You tilted your head, studying him.
“I think,” you said after a moment, “that I would.”
Daeron noticed them. He paused mid-sentence, gaze snapping to Valarr. Aerion followed a heartbeat later, eyes narrowing.
You turned just enough to wave them off.
“I’m fine,” you called. “Go bother someone else.”
Aerion’s jaw tightened, and Daeron sighed theatrically.
“You’re certain sister?” Daeron asked.
“Yes,” you replied. “Unless you’d like to argue in front of the prince.”
That decided it.
Your brothers retreated, reluctantly, casting Valarr one last look that was all warning.
When they were gone, the garden seemed quieter.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “They mean well.”
“I know,” Valarr replied. “I imagine I will be similar if not the same if I were to ever have a sister.”
That earned him another smile.
You walked then, not formally, just drifting along the garden path side by side. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It settled easily.
Valarr found himself glancing at you when you weren’t looking, to preoccupied with the budding flowers or bugs on the leafs.
At the way you moved without self-consciousness. At the way your fingers kept returning to the trinket, as though drawn there by instinct. At the faint crease between your brows when you grew thoughtful.
He told himself, again, that this meant nothing. he was being courteous is all.
The second time happened in the library.
Valarr had retreated there deliberately, seeking refuge from council murmurs and polite inquiries. He’d chosen a far corner, half-shadowed, shelves towering overhead, the quiet thick and blessed.
He was halfway through a page when he heard footsteps.
Light, feminine steps.
He looked up.
You stood a few paces away, scanning the shelves with open curiosity, an attendant hovering helplessly behind you with a stack of books already in her arms.
“Oh,” you said when you noticed him. “My prince, we meet again.”
Valarr closed his book slowly.
“Should I be offended,” he asked, “or relieved?”
You smiled, stepping closer.
“Relieved,” you decided. “I was hoping for something more interesting than titles about trade tariffs.”
He gestured to the shelf beside him. “History, then. Slightly more intriguing.”
Your eyes lit up.
“You read history for fun?”
“I don’t recommend it,” he said. “But it does grow on you.”
You leaned closer, scanning spines, and without realizing it, without even looking, your fingers found the dragon again.
Valarr’s breath caught.
The same motion, the same unconscious curl of your hand.
“You do that often,” he said quietly.
You glanced down, surprised, then laughed softly.
“Oh. That. I suppose I do.”
“Does it mean something?”
You considered.
“I don’t think so,” you said. “It’s just familiar, and it comforts me.”
Valarr looked away before you could see his expression.
“Yes,” he murmured. “I imagine does.”
You chose a book then, thick, well-worn. You tucked it under your arm.
“Borrowing this,” you said cheerfully. “I’ll return it. Probably.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” he replied.
When you left, the space you’d occupied felt suddenly empty. Valarr sat there for a long moment afterward, staring at the shelf without seeing it.
Twice.
Coincidence, he told himself.
The third time made him laugh.
It was a narrow corridor near the royal apartments—one he rarely used, chosen out of habit more than intention. He rounded the corner quickly, deep in thought—
—and stopped short.
So did you.
For a heartbeat, you simply stared at one another.
Then you laughed first.
“This is becoming suspicious my prince,” you said.
Valarr found himself smiling before he could stop it.
“Either the Red Keep is smaller than I remember,” he said lightly, “or you’re following me.”
Your laughter rang out, a genuine one.
“I assure you,” you replied, “I’d have chosen a more dramatic approach.”
Something in Valarr loosened at the sound.
He relaxed visibly, shoulders easing, the careful distance he kept from most people slipping without effort.
And as you passed him, close enough that he caught the faint scent of summer on your clothes, he realized something unsettling. He hoped it would happen again. That you would always be their as he turns every corner. That you'd inhabit the spaces he so commonly ventured into.
—
Later that evening, as Valarr found himself choosing paths he might run into you on, he stopped short.
And laughed quietly to himself. Valarr did not mean to look for you.
That was the lie he told himself as he chose the longer path through the eastern wing the following morning, one that curved past the small terrace overlooking the Blackwater rather than cutting straight through the council corridor. He told himself he wanted air. Quiet. Space to think.
He did not tell himself he hoped you might be there.
The terrace was empty.
He felt an unreasonable flicker of disappointment before he caught himself and frowned, annoyed at the thought. Ridiculous. You had your own schedule, your own obligations, attendants, family, duties he barely understood. It was foolish to expect-
“My prince?”
He turned.
You stood in the doorway, sunlight at your back, one hand braced lightly against the stone as if you had only just decided to step outside. You looked surprised to see him, and then pleased.
“Oh,” you said, smiling. “There you are.”
There you are.
The words settled somewhere uncomfortably warm in his chest.
“I could say the same,” he replied, a little too quickly.
You stepped onto the terrace, skirts whispering softly against the stone. An attendant hovered briefly behind you, then, at your gentle insistence, retreated inside.
“Everyone keeps telling me where I ought to be, these days,” you said. “It’s exhausting.”
Valarr huffed a quiet laugh. “They do that.”
You leaned against the balustrade beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of you without touching. Below, the water moved steadily, indifferent to courtly fuss.
Your fingers lifted to the dragon trinket again.
Valarr watched the motion.
“You always go to your neck, when you’re overwhelmed,” he said before thinking better of it.
You blinked. Looked down.
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
You considered that, rubbing the sigil thoughtfully.
“Hm,” you murmured. “I suppose I do. Although my prince, you shouldn't stare at a ladies chest so much, some may find it indecent.”
He could feel the teasing notations behind your words, but he didnt entertain it further. Settling instead to cough into this fisted hand and wait for the warmth of his cheeks to wear off.
—
The feast that evening was unavoidable.
Your nameday demanded it, music, laughter, long tables heavy with food, and a sea of eyes eager to measure, compare, and whisper. Valarr entered with practiced composure, scanning the hall without conscious intent, finding you immediately.
You sat with your family, your father at the center, your brothers flanking you like loyal guards. You looked radiant, not because of your finery (though that was impossible to ignore), but because you were comfortable. At ease. Laughing openly.
Valarr realized, distantly, that he was smiling.
“Careful,” Baelor murmured beside him. “You’re staring son.”
Valarr straightened. “I was not.”
Baelor’s expression said everything.
Valarr, wanting to ignore his father, made his way toward the high table, intending to sit where protocol dictated. Halfway there, you glanced up.
Your eyes met his. You smiled small, and unmistakably meant for him.
Valarr changed course without even noticing he’d done it. By the time he realized, he was seated beside you.
Your brothers exchanged a look. Daeron raised a brow, and Aerion narrowed his eyes.
You, blissfully unaware, leaned closer.
“I was hoping you’d sit here my prince,” you said.
Valarr felt the words settle into him like a promise.
“Was that so?”
“Yes,” you replied simply. “You make this all fuss feel much less loud.”
Conversation flowed easily, about things he had truly no interest in. Although when you would talk he'd find himself straining his ears just to hear you a little clearer. You spoke of Summerhall, of books you’d borrowed and not yet returned, of how strange it felt to be celebrated so publicly. Valarr listened, found himself answering with more honesty than he ever offered at court.
At one point, Aerion leaned in.
“So,” he said, tone deceptively casual, “dear cousin, how long have you two known each other?”
Valarr hesitated.
You answered first.
“Oh, not long brother,” you said. “We just keep running into each other.”
Daeron snorted. “Funny how that happens.”
Valarr hid a smile behind his cup. Your fingers found the trinket again as laughter rose around you. He noticed how you stilled slightly when someone down the table laughed too loudly. How your grip tightened just a fraction.
—
After the feast, Valarr told himself, again, that he would sleep early. Instead, at the dead of night, he found himself wandering. The corridors were quieter now, torches casting long shadows across stone. He passed servants and guards, nodded politely, turned corners without thinking.
And then, there you were.
Seated on a window bench, skirts gathered around you, moonlight painting silver into your hair. You looked up at the sound of his steps and smiled as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
“Do you ever sleep?” you asked.
Valarr laughed softly. “Rarely.”
You shifted to make room. He joined you without hesitation. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence was companionable. Comfortable in a way Valarr had rarely known.
“I think,” you said at last, “that the Red Keep is playing tricks on us.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” you continued. “It keeps putting you in my way.”
Valarr glanced at you, amused.
“Or,” he said lightly, “you’re really following me.”
You laughed. “You’re impossible.”
He liked the way you said that.
Your hand drifted, again, always, to the dragon at your neckline. You rubbed the thread slowly, thoughtfully, eyes distant. Valarr watched, heart tight.
“You don’t remember where you got it,” he said.
It wasn’t a question, you shook your head in response.
“No. I’ve asked before. No one seems to know. It’s always just been with me.”
He swallowed.
“Do you mind that?”
You considered.
“No,” you said finally. “Some things don’t need explanations.”
Valarr thought of a baby’s grip, of laughter, of a torn sigil mended too carefully to discard.
“Yes,” he agreed quietly. “Some things don’t.”
Later, when Valarr finally did return to his chambers, he paused before the mirror. His gaze dropped, unconsciously, to the dragon over his heart.
He smiled faintly.
Across the keep, you slept with the trinket curled in your fingers, unaware of the pattern you were weaving.
And somewhere between chance and intention, between memory and instinct. The prince who kept finding you realized something dangerous. He didn’t want to stop.
—
Valarr did not believe he was flirting.
That was the first and most critical misunderstanding.
From his perspective, he was being thoughtful. Attentive in a way befitting someone who had been told, rather unhelpfully, that you were important. He listened when you spoke. He answered when you asked. He made sure you were comfortable, and safe.
None of that, in his mind, constituted flirting.
It did, however, result in him saying things like—
“You…walk very quietly.”
You paused mid-step, turned to look at him, and burst out laughing.
“That is a compliment?” you asked.
Valarr felt heat rush to his face.
“I meant,” he said quickly, “that you move without-without drawing attention. It’s…efficient.”
“Efficient,” you repeated, eyes bright with amusement. “How flattering.”
He winced. “That came out wrong.”
You smiled anyway, and that somehow made it worse.
From then on, it only escalated. Valarr overthought everything.
Every word was weighed twice. If he spoke too much, he worried he’d bored you. If he spoke too little, he feared he’d offended you. If you smiled for longer than a heartbeat, he went quiet, convinced he’d said something foolish and you were being kind about it.
You, meanwhile, assumed this was simply how he was. Polite, reserved, and earnest Valarr, in an almost awkward way.
You found it endearing. Everyone else found it obvious.
Daeron noticed first.
It happened during a late afternoon walk along the inner ramparts. You were speaking animatedly about a book you’d borrowed—still hadn’t returned, Valarr noted—and he was listening with the kind of focus usually reserved for council matters.
Daeron watched him for a long moment, then leaned closer to you.
“He looks at you like you’re the only person in the keep sister,” your brother murmured.
You blinked. “He does not.”
Daeron hummed skeptically.
Aerion noticed next, and was far less subtle about it.
“So,” he said one evening, arms crossed as Valarr approached. “Is this intentional?”
Valarr stiffened. “Is what intentional?”
“This,” Aerion gestured vaguely between the two of you. “The constant proximity. The hovering around my sister.”
Valarr opened his mouth. Closed it.
“I am not hovering,” he said finally.
Aerion’s gaze sharpened. “You haven’t been more than three steps away from her all evening.”
You laughed, nudging Aerion’s arm. “You’re imagining things brother.”
Aerion looked unconvinced, but said nothing more.
Your father noticed.
Maekar watched the way Valarr adjusted his pace to match yours, during your now daily strolls in the garden with the prince. The way he angled his body toward you, shielding it, he obviously did so without realizing it. The way his expression softened when you laughed.
He had said nothing.
Your mother noticed, and smiled.
She noticed the unconscious gestures. The way your fingers always found the dragon when Valarr was near. The way his eyes followed that motion, every time, as though it were something precious. If it was any man she'd have him beheaded for looking at the princess in such an inappropriate manner.
She did not intervene.
Valarr, meanwhile, was miserable.
He stood in his father’s study one evening, hands clasped tightly behind his back, pacing in short, agitated turns.
“I don’t think she knows I like her,” he said finally.
Baelor looked up from his writing, expression unreadable.
“She doesn’t?”
“No,” Valarr said, running a hand through his hair. “She’s kind. She laughs. She speaks to me easily. I think she assumes I’m merely, being polite.”
Baelor studied him for a long moment.
“You escort her everywhere.”
“Yes, but—”
“You seek her out daily.”
“That’s coincidence.”
Valarr hesitated.
Baelor set his quill down.
“Valarr,” he said gently, “my son you are courting her in plain sight.”
Valarr froze.
“I am?”
Baelor smiled.
“You compliment her, terribly,” he added. “You grow flustered when she teases you. You go quiet when she smiles at you too long, and you look at her like she already belongs beside you.”
Valarr stared at him, horrified.
“That’s-” he stopped, swallowing. “That’s obvious?”
“To everyone but you and her it seems,” Baelor replied.
Valarr sank into a chair, covering his face with one hand.
“She deserves someone-,” he muttered. “-Someone who knows what he’s doing.”
Baelor chuckled softly.
“She deserves someone who sees her,” he said. “And you do.”
The realization hit Valarr slowly. Every interaction replayed itself in his mind with new clarity.
The garden. The library. The corridors. The way you smiled when you saw him. The way your fingers curled around the dragon without thinking.
He had been courting you.
Not with grand gesture, with care. The next time he saw you, he was acutely aware of it.
You approached him in the courtyard, sunlight warming the stone beneath your feet. “There you are,” you said easily.
Valarr’s heart stumbled. “Here I am,” he replied.
You smiled at him, that same unguarded smile, and for once, he didn’t look away.
“Can I walk with you?” he asked. You didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”
And as your fingers drifted, once again, to the familiar trinket at your neckline. Valarr thought, with equal parts terror and certainty.
Seven help me. I am in love with her.
—
The solar was quiet in the way only old stone rooms could be, thick walls holding in the warmth of the afternoon, shutters half-drawn against the sun. Baelor stood near the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back, gaze fixed not on the city beyond but on the reflection in the glass.
Maekar did not sit. He never did, not when something mattered.
“You wished to speak brother,” Maekar said, arms crossed, voice level. “So speak.”
Baelor turned slowly, studying him. He had known Maekar his entire life, knew the set of his shoulders when he was bracing, the way his jaw tightened when he expected to be challenged.
“This concerns your daughter,” Baelor said evenly.
Maekar’s expression hardened at once.
“Then you should choose your words carefully.”
Baelor inclined his head slightly. “I intend to.”
Silence stretched between them.
“She is remarkable,” Baelor continued. “Unaffected by court in a way few are."
“She is young,” Maekar replied sharply.
Baelor did not argue that.
“I have no intention of rushing anything,” he said. “But I would be remiss not to acknowledge what is already plain.”
Maekar’s eyes narrowed. “Plain to whom?”
“To anyone with eyes,” Baelor said quietly. “Valarr, most of all.”
That did it. Maekar let out a low breath through his nose, something between a scoff and a warning.
“My daughter is not a consolation prize for a prince who happens to notice her,” he said. “Nor is she a political convenience.”
Baelor held his gaze steadily. “I would never suggest my niece to be that.”
“She has brothers who would tear this keep apart for her,” Maekar went on. “She has a father who has bled for this family. I will not hand her over lightly.”
“I would expect nothing less,” Baelor replied.
Another silence.
“She is fond of him,” Baelor added carefully. “Even if she does not yet know what that means.” Maekar’s jaw tightened.
“And what of Valarr?” he asked. “Is he fond, or merely intrigued?”
Baelor did not answer immediately. “He is…earnest in his affection,” he said at last. “In ways that do not always serve him well. He is thoughtful to a fault. He remembers things others forget.”
Maekar’s brow furrowed. “Such as?”
Baelor hesitated only a moment. “She wore something today,” he said. “A small dragon. Worn with age.”
Maekar stiffened. “That trinket,” Baelor continued, “once belonged to Valarr. Or rather, she took it from him.”
Maekar stared. “She was a baby,” Baelor added. “She grabbed the sigil from his chest and would not let go. We thought nothing of it at the time.”
Maekar said nothing. “Valarr did not forget,” Baelor finished quietly.
The silence that followed was heavier than before. Maekar turned away, pacing once across the room, boots striking stone. When he spoke again, his voice was lower.
“She does not remember,” he said. “She knows nothing of that moment.”
“No,” Baelor agreed. “But she repeats it.”
“She touches the dragon whenever she is overwhelmed,” Baelor said. “Without knowing why, and my son, Valarr notices every time.”
Maekar closed his eyes briefly.
“That does not mean I will give my consent,” he said. “I have seen what the crown does to good men. I will not watch my daughter be swallowed by it.”
Baelor nodded. “Nor would I.”
Maekar looked at him sharply. “Then why are we having this conversation?”
“Because,” Baelor said gently, “whether we sanction it or not, something has already begun.”
Maekar’s hands curled into fists at his sides.
“She deserves a choice,” he said.
“So does Valarr,” Baelor replied. “And he has made none lightly.”
Maekar studied him for a long moment. “You speak as though this is decided.”
“No,” Baelor said. “I speak as a father who sees his son walking into something that matters, and I am speaking to another father who would burn the realm before seeing his daughter harmed.”
That, at least, Maekar understood.
“She will not be pressured,” Maekar said firmly. “She will not be paraded. If Valarr wishes anything from her, he will earn it."
Baelor smiled faintly. “I would expect nothing else.”
Maekar turned toward the door, then paused. “If he hurts her,” he said without looking back, “he will answer to me. Crown or no crown.”
Baelor met his back with calm certainty. “He knows.”
Maekar left without another word.
Baelor remained by the window long after. Some bonds, it seemed, did not need memory. Only time.
—
By the final days of your nameday celebrations, the Red Keep no longer felt like a palace.
You had lost track of how many feasts had been held in your honor. How many gifts had been pressed into your hands. How many times servants had bowed too deeply or courtiers had smiled too brightly, their eyes lingering just a moment too long.
Your father indulged you through all of it.
When you complained of sore feet, he waved off protocol and had chairs brought where there should not have been any. When you grew tired of sweet wines, he ordered something lighter without question. When you asked to walk the ramparts late at night, he assigned guards but did not forbid you.
“She’s had enough ceremony for a lifetime,” he said once, flatly.
Your brothers hovered relentlessly.
Daeron teased you about the attention, about how often your name was spoken in halls not meant for it. Aerion said less, but stood closer, watched harder.
Attendants fussed like it was their sole purpose in life. Everyday their were new gowns, new ribbons, new jewels, and endless adjustments.
—
Valarr had never hated celebration more.
Not because of the noise or the spectacle, he had been raised in it, but because celebration demanded visibility ,and with visibility came the scrutiny. And over the course of the week, every look he cast your way felt noticed.
He had not intended for things to become so obvious.
He had not intended to escort you so often, to linger so long, to learn the rhythms of your presence the way one learned music, without effort, without realizing it had happened.
Yet here he was, standing beside you again as musicians played softly in the gardens, torchlight flickering against stone.
“You look tired,” he said, immediately regretting it.
“I am,” you admitted cheerfully. “But it’s a pleasant sort of tired.”
“You’ve been generous with your time,” Valarr said.
You laughed softly. “As if I had a choice.” Your fingers, like oppositely charged magnets attracted towards the sigil at your neck.
Valarr’s gaze followed the motion before he could stop himself. You noticed this time.
Instead, you smiled. “You keep looking at it,” you said.
“I-” Valarr stopped, then exhaled. “I’m sorry, it’s familiar.”
“So you’ve said.”
He hesitated. “Do you ever wonder where it came from?”
“You've also asked that many times," you laughed lightly. “It is all the time I wonder, but I don’t mind not knowing.”
He wondered if you ever would.
—
By the sixth evening, no one pretended anymore.
Servants seated Valarr beside you without asking, musicians timed quieter songs for moments when you two would grace the dance floor. Courtiers bowed a fraction deeper when addressing the two of you as a unit.
—
It was late when you found yourselves alone in a quieter corridor, the sounds of celebration distant. Torches cast long shadows; the keep felt hushed, expectant.
“Valarr,” you said suddenly.
He turned to you at once. “Yes?”
“You’ve been…different,” you said carefully. “This week.”
His heart stuttered. “Different how?”
You considered, fingers worrying the three dragon’s.
“Like you’re thinking several things at once,” you said. “And none of them are simple.”
He laughed quietly. “You’re perceptive.”
“I have good teachers,” you replied.
Silence settled.
“There’s something happening,” you said slowly. “Isn’t there?”
Valarr’s instincts screamed to protect you from it, from politics, from expectation, from the weight of what was coming.
“Yes,” he said honestly. “There is.”
You looked up at him, searching his face. “And does it frighten you?”
He met your gaze. “Yes.”
That answer surprised you. “And yet,” you said softly, “you’re still here.”
Valarr’s voice was very quiet. “I don’t want to be anywhere else.”
—
Baelor stood beside Maekar in the high gallery overlooking the hall below. The music swelled. You stood among the guests.
“And if she says no?” Maekar asked bluntly.
Baelor did not look away from the scene below. “Then we listen,” he said. “And Valarr will learn to accept it.”
Maekar nodded once. “She will be told tonight,” he said. “Not as an order.”
“No,” Baelor agreed. “As a possible match for the future.”
Maekar exhaled slowly. “My daughter deserves nothing but joy,” he said.
Baelor’s gaze shifted, just briefly, to Valarr, standing close at your side, speaking quietly. “She may have found it already brother.”
—
The final feast of your nameday week was grander than the rest. Banners hung high. The hall glowed with torchlight. The air buzzed, not with celebration alone, but anticipation.
You sensed it. Something about the way servants moved more carefully. The way your mother adjusted your sleeves herself. The way your father’s expression was unreadable.
Valarr felt it too.
When he offered you his arm, his hand trembled just slightly. “Whatever happens,” he said quietly, “I hope you know-”
The music swelled suddenly. A hush began to ripple through the hall. Baelor rose, and your father straightened.
Somewhere deep in your chest, the dragon trinket warmed beneath your fingers.
The hush had crept over the celebrations.
Conversation softened, laughter thinned, the musicians’ tempo slowed until even they seemed to sense it, bows drawing more gently, notes stretching longer than intended. One by one, heads turned toward the high table.
You felt it before you understood it.
Your fingers tightened around the dragon trinket at your throat, the familiarity pressing into your skin. The warmth there steadied you, even as something in the air shifted.
Valarr noticed immediately.
He had been speaking to you, something small, something meant to distract, but the moment Baelor rose, his words faltered. He straightened without thinking, shoulders squaring, expression composed with effort rather than ease.
Your father stood as well.
Baelor waited until the hall was fully still before he spoke.
“Lords and ladies of the realm,” he said, voice carrying easily through the vast space. “We gather tonight to mark the close of a week of celebration, one honoring the nameday of a daughter of House Targaryen, my lovely neice.”
A polite murmur followed.
You felt suddenly visible in a way you had not all week.
Baelor continued.
“It is fitting,” he said, “that such a celebration should also look forward, toward the future of our house, and the bonds that will strengthen it.”
Valarr’s heart began to pound. slow and heavy.
This was it.
He had known it was coming. Had felt it circling the edges of every conversation, every look, every carefully chosen word. And yet, the reality of it struck him all at once, sharp and breathless.
You glanced at him then, not in fear, more so in question.
Oh his sweet girl, he wishes he hide you away now, to not bother yourself with these pagentrys. But he could not, all he could do now was squeeze your hand slightly under the table.
Valarr met your gaze and held it, Whatever happens, his eyes seemed to say, I am here.
Baelor turned slightly, gesturing.
“It is with the blessing of both families,” he said evenly, “that we announce a betrothal.”
Your breath caught.
Maekar spoke then, voice firm and unyielding.
“My daughter,” he said, “has been raised with choice, with care, and with the understanding that her happiness is not a thing to be traded lightly.”
Your heart thundered.
Valarr’s chest felt tight.
Maekar turned fully now, his gaze sweeping the hall before settling, briefly, deliberately, on Valarr.
“She will be wed to a man who has shown her respect,” he continued, “who has sought her company without demand, and who understands the weight of what it means to stand beside her.”
A pause.
Then Baelor finished it.
“To my son, Prince Valarr Targaryen.”
The hall erupted.
A whirl it was, all the whispers rushing like wind through banners. Gasps, and murmurs. The rustle of silk as courtiers leaned closer, already weaving narratives in their minds.
You did not hear any of it, you were staring at Valarr.
He was staring at you.
For one suspended heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between you.
Your fingers clenched around the dragon.
Valarr swallowed.
“I-” you began, then stopped.
Daeron reacted first.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply through his nose, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.
“Well,” he muttered, just loud enough for Aerion to hear, “that explains a great deal.”
Your mother reached for your hand. You realized then that she had known.
“How long?” you whispered, not looking away from Valarr.
She squeezed your other hand gently. “Long enough.”
Baelor raised his hand, the hall gradually settling again.
“This betrothal,” he said clearly, “is made with the understanding that it honors not only tradition but prosperity for the realm.”
Valarr felt his lungs finally draw breath.
You turned toward your father. Maekar’s gaze softened carefully.
“My dear girl, you are not commanded,” he said quietly, meant only for you. “this is an offering.”
You looked back at Valarr. He had gone still, utterly still, waiting.
“I accept,” you said. The words felt solid in your mouth.
The hall erupted properly this time.
Cheers, applause, exclamations too loud to track.
Valarr’s breath left him in a rush so sharp it nearly made him laugh. He bowed his head, briefly, respectfully, then turned back to you.
His voice, when he spoke, was quiet. Almost reverent. “Are you certain?”
You smiled. “Yes.”
Your fingers relaxed, then, without thinking, reached for his sleeve.
Just for a moment, the same way you had when you were a babe.
—
Later, much later, you stood together on a balcony overlooking the city, the noise of celebration dimmed by distance.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
Finally, you laughed softly. “So,” you said. “I suppose this explains why everyone’s been looking at us strangely.”
Valarr huffed a breath of a laugh. “I was told I was courting you.”
You glanced at him. “Were you?”
He considered. “Yes,” he said honestly. “Very badly.”
You laughed again, leaning closer. “I didn’t mind.”
Moonlight caught the dragon at your throat.
Valarr reached out, hesitant, and careful, and brushed his fingers lightly against it.
“You took this from me once,” he said softly.
You blinked. “I'm sorry?” Clearly not understanding his words.
He smiled, warm. "You were only a few moons old, when Lady Dyanna had me hold you, you found the symbol on my chest so captivating you had to have it. So you did, taking it right from my doublet."
Your face grew slightly red, facing the view instead of the prince in front of you. To ashamed to think you had done something so egregious in your early years. "Did I really?"
“Yes,” he said. “And I think I’ve been waiting for you to return it ever since.”
You did not pull away, some bonds, after all, did not need memory.
Only time.
