forbidden fruit | valarr targaryen x reader x kiera of tyrosh
as the handmaiden to kiera nasrys, you’ve travelled across the narrow sea, deep into the heart of a kingdom you cannot trust - not in the least because you know their future princess in ways their faith would scorn. now, you are set to face the targaryen princeling kiera is to marry, and hope you won’t have to kill him in his sleep.
word count: 13.8k
contents: fem!reader, essosi!reader but no physical description or specific origin, frank discussions of in-universe slavery and reader who was enslaved but no longer is (kiera's from tyrosh i'm sorry), i saw one still image of kiera and valarr at that funeral pyre and said “what if i got bisexual about this?”, threesome, mild slowburn, eventual smut, angst, oral (fem receiving), body worship, mild dom/sub dynamics, alcohol consumption, pathetic chivalric knight valarr, lyonel baratheon cameo, what if kiera of tyrosh told her husband how to make love to you
a/n: love emerging from a word document covered in blood and still rethinking my version of valyrian dialect vocab and the family name i gave kiera lmao :)) this fic is a real labour of love, so i hope it turned out alright. there will definitely be more parts to the fruitverse, but those might take me a little more time. this is their initial little love story, though i'm definitely gonna get carried away haha, there are also pretty up front mentions and discussions of asoiaf-typical slavery because it's tough to have a character be from tyrosh or the free cities at large and not bring it up, so just know that it's not crazy explicit and it's not the crux of the whole story but it is In There so proceed with caution if that would be difficult for you to read. posting this before episode six of akotsk, so just know i'm manifesting [checks notes] actual dialogue from either of these characters. hope you enjoy, beloveds <3
masterlist
dividers from @strangergraphics
taglist: @nixtape-foryou <3 <3
Thirty two days. That was the distance between the Nasrys estate in Tyrosh, and the looming spires of the Red Keep. Thirty two days of the swaying, stinking ship, of the burning sun over the Narrow Sea, of sailors eyeing you in the evenings, dreaming about what might hide beneath the layers of your dress. Thirty two days of rubbing oil of dusk rose into Kiera’s tense hands, watching her sketch: the vastness of the horizon, the surliness of the crew, the curve of your hands on the back of her neck. Thirty two days of grim anticipation.
You can still see that journey when you look out the open windows of the Red Keep, Blackwater Bay gleaming in the morning sunshine. Your palms are braced against the windowsill, the stone warmed from the sunrise. Beneath you, spread out between you and the water, are a dizzying smear of gardens, street vendors, craftsmen and beggars, all awash with the warm southern breeze.
The flowers are in bloom, and still this city smells like fish and rot.
“I think we should breakfast in the gardens today.”
You glance over your shoulder, watching Kiera slide from the clutches of her bed. It’s a truly decadent thing: a feather mattress the size of a small barge, silk sheets in shades of pearl and lemon and jade, a dreamy cloud of fluffy blankets. When you first saw it, you laughed at the shining abalone headboard, the iridescence of the Nasrys pride and joy still embedded in your lives.
The bed is about the only thing in this betrothal for which you envy Kiera. You hope she’ll get to keep it after the wedding.
“So the lords and ladies of this fine city may gawk at the Tyroshi abberations some more?”
Kiera’s mouth quirks into a rueful smile as she stretches, arms far above her head. Her hair is an unruly cloud of baby pink, and it tickles her cheeks as she rubs the last of sleep from her eyes.
“So that we may smell the flowers while they’re still blooming. I’ve heard a hard winter may be on its way soon, and they may be taken from us.”
“These superstitious fools always believe a hard winter is coming,” you say, the delicate tumble of Tyroshi a relief on your tongue.
“These superstitious fools have lived here thousands of years,” Kiera says with a laugh. Hearing her speak in your language sets something at rights within you, stabilizing you somehow. “I think they know a thing or two about their own weather.”
“I think they’re trying to frighten you,” you joke, moving to find Kiera’s dress for the day. Her wardrobe opens with a great flutter of silks and linens, a rainbow of options. Her father had spared no expense for her Westerosi fashion, and the gown you lay out on her bed is the kind of embroidered, rosy silk that will make her look like she’s already a Princess.
“I think you’re determined to hate them,” Kiera says, sitting at her mirror and washing her hands in the steaming basin you’d left out. Your hands still smell like the mint and lemon water you’d poured, and the oils have left them soft as a child’s.
Sometimes you worry you’re being too blatant, but Kiera is delighted by the freedoms King’s Landing has given you. If her handmaiden’s hands are smooth, her clothes fine, and her quarters garlanded, it is the business of the future Princess and the future Princess alone.
“I think hating them is my responsibility,” you say with a shrug, beginning to tame her curls. Kiera tips her head back to look at you, making your task much harder, but you can’t bring yourself to mind. “You can love all you want, and I can keep the knife ready just in case.”
“Qeloi -!”
Kiera’s cackle of laughter is cut short by the knock on her bedroom door, which has both of you jumping into place: your hands leaving her hair, her hand jerking from the side of your neck. Your eyes lock in the mirror, which Kiera faces with a spine so straight it would put the columns of the Bleeding Tower to shame.
“Lady Kiera?”
You eye the door, your fingers tightening around the comb in your hand. You think if he opens that door, you might just throw it at him – and you have good aim.
But blinding a Targaryen princeling sounds like the last thing you need.
“Yes, my Prince?” Kiera is quick, tying her robe at the waist and giving your arm a small push. She nods at the bedroom door, a clear instruction. “Is everything alright?”
“Everything is fine – would you mind breakfasting with me today?”
You open the door halfway through his question, and Valarr Targaryen blinks at you with wide, mismatched eyes, hand braced on the doorframe. He straightens the moment he realizes who he has the misfortune of speaking to, however, and his hand drops to his side, striking a far more dignified figure. He’s already dressed for the day, clad in head-to-toe Targaryen red and black. He’s an eyesore compared to the vision your morning has been.
“Your Grace,” you say, your words flat from the effort of keeping the venom out of them. Your hand rests on the doorknob, waiting for the chance to close it again, make this nightmare disappear for a few more hours. “Lady Kiera plans to breakfast in the gardens.”
The princeling nods. He doesn’t look behind you into Kiera’s private quarters, which earns him half a mark of approval from you.
“That’s perfect,” he says. The smile he plasters on is as subpar as his rumoured jousting skills. “I hear the dusk roses are beginning to bloom.”
You stare back, unimpressed. “I suppose we’ll see.”
The dusk roses are blooming, as are the dragon’s breath and black lotuses. They make a sumptuous scene, their heady scent enveloping you as servants carry tea and pastries and warm plates to the table in the gardens. A small brook burbles nearby, and the seats are lined with plush velvet upholstery.
Kiera and the Prince take their spots at the table, where two chairs have been set out across from one another. Kiera glances to you over her shoulder, frowning.
“Sorry,” she says to a passing maid, a hand brushing the girl’s elbow. “May you bring a seat for my handmaiden? She breakfasts with me every morning.”
“It’s alright, my Lady,” you say, shaking your head. “I don’t mind standing.”
Kiera silences your protest with a single look, before she nods to the maid. The girl rushes off and comes back with a third seat folded in her arms. You help her unfold it – you’ve never been in the habit of having twelve-year-old servants work for you. As you take your seat, it’s just as you feared: you sit squarely between Kiera and her betrothed, who is hardly three feet from you at this silly little garden table.
“I’ve never been to Tyrosh,” Prince Valarr says, smiling at Kiera. “Is it customary for handmaidens to dine with their ladies?”
You press your lips together, the question a slap. It is not, in fact, customary at all. The memory of your last night in Tyrosh hangs over you like a black cloud: the candle guttering out in your cramped quarters, the plate of cold bread and hard cheese in your lap. And still, you knew your luck. Very few handmaidens were free to venture to Westeros without chains – the land beyond the masters the girls called it, whispering in the depths of the kitchens and the scullery.
“Not always, my Prince,” Kiera shakes her head. You can feel her watching you, but your mind is far away – a thirty two day journey away. A servant pours tea in three cups, and Kiera nudges one towards you. “But it is different between us. We have been together since we were children.”
“A child caring for a child?” The Prince asks, and you meet his gaze head on.
“It is not so uncommon,” you shrug. The cup of tea is warm between your fingers, and its fragrance is delicate, sweet. “In Tyrosh, many people learn their trades young. Folding another girl’s laundry and making her bed is hardly the most difficult.”
You can see the question in his face when he looks between the two of you, and for a moment, you’re winning. You have the Prince on the backfoot, uncertain in this quiet battle of etiquette. Will he relent, surrender like a coward? Or will he cast aside politeness and ask how you truly came into Kiera’s life? A dragon has no use for niceties, not when it has fire.
“Do you have gardens like this in Tyrosh?”
You blink, hand tightening around your cup. Prince Valarr is only looking at Kiera, that charming, shallow smile having returned.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Kiera says, looking around at the deluge of colour, dew-kissed petals shining in the morning sun. “Some even larger. It is tropical, our climate – our gardens line the coasts, and grow every fruit available in Essos. We used to walk through them in the mornings and evenings.”
“Which fruit was your favourite?”
“We call them golden apples – you can make jelly out of them that’s so thick you can eat it with your fingers, all on its own. I mean,” Kiera adds, laughing. “You’re meant to spread it on toast, but I usually get carried away.”
“Is our jam anywhere near as good?” He asks, nodding to the toast Kiera has on her plate.
“Excellent, but not the same. Besides, I’d have them fresh – I knew the best golden apple picker in Tyrosh.”
When Kiera looks to you, smiling, it’s like you’re back in the gardens on the coast. No masters around, no tutors, no chaperones. Just two girls running through the rosebushes, one of them climbing trees to pick fruit and the other catching them in her sash.
“And your favourite?”
Your eyes flick to Prince Valarr. He’s sipping his tea, watching the two of you intently over the rim of his cup.
“My favourite?”
“Fruit, in the great gardens of Tyrosh. Or were you only there for the picking?”
Only there for the picking. You understand his question, and your face goes warm with sudden shame: were you only there to serve, never to eat? Were you at Kiera’s beck and call, following in her steps like a dog brought to heel? Were you only ever a child caring for a child?
“Apricots.” You do not look at the Prince when you speak – you wonder if that’s punishable here. You look at the honeyfingers as you carefully, expertly cut them into their segments, serving one onto Kiera’s plate and placing the other on your own. “Which do you enjoy, Your Grace? I’m sure a prince has tried as many fruits as the Seven Kingdoms have to offer.”
Kiera’s slipper grazes your ankle under the table, a silent warning, but you just take a bite of honeyfinger. The pastry dissolves on your tongue, sweet and flaky, and for a moment you must admit that someone, somewhere in this damn palace, is paying attention to the Tyroshi aberrations, because it could have come from the kitchens in the Nasrys estate.
“I’m partial to pomegranate,” the Prince says with a small half-smile. “I believe it’s from Essos, but we have several trees in the gardens. Would you like to see them after breakfast?”
“I think –”
“We would love to, my Prince,” Kiera says, smiling sharply at you. “It would be our pleasure.”
The weeks tear themselves away faster than you thought possible, a tree stripped of its bark, only the tender green inside left exposed. Kiera is often pulled into discussions about garlands and musicians and embroidery, and you trip along behind her in every room of the Red Keep.
Prince Valarr keeps his distance, though he breakfasts with the two of you most mornings. He waits outside Kiera’s chambers, standing tall in an empty hallway like a fool. One morning, he picks a dusk rose and threads it through her hair, where its blue makes her curls look even pinker, and Kiera smiles at him with the radiance of the sun. You just sip your tea, remembering the sounds Kiera made into her pillow the last night on the ship, when the moonlight painted her whole body in dark, cool tones.
This routine is so consistent that spotting the Prince hovering outside her door one night sends a jolt of surprise through you, like seeing something you know is wrong. He doesn’t belong here, skulking outside her chambers.
“What are you doing?”
Prince Valarr hides his flinch well, you’ll give him that: his face goes smooth and blank in an instant, and you can’t help but wonder what made him learn that. Being a Prince certainly requires lots of saving face – you wonder if that’s what he’s good at, amongst the madness of his family.
“I could ask you the same question,” he says, and you fight not to roll your eyes.
“I am Kiera’s handmaiden, so no, you could not. I attend to her. You do not. So what are you doing, hiding outside her room at the hour of the fish?”
Valarr stares at you, frowning. “Fish?”
You sigh, your hands waving impatiently. “Yes, your bats and your ghosts and your fishes in the night.”
“It’s the hour of the eel.”
“An eel is a fish,” you say, shifting between him and the door. “And your silly supersitions have nothing to do with why you are –”
“Why I am visiting my betrothed, while she lives in my home?”
You pause, take a breath. Valarr stays quiet, waiting for an answer. That’s all he probably ever has to do: stand still and wait, and answers and offers and gifts fall desperately at his feet. The presumption makes you nauseous with anger for a moment, and you fight not to snap. He is right about one thing: this is his home, not yours. If he sees fit, he can have just about anything done with you.
“She prefers not to be disturbed,” you whisper. “She finds it hard to sleep here. It is not her home.”
“It will be,” Valarr says, although his brow pinches with concern. “For both of you.”
You balk. “I think I will decide where my home is, Your Grace.”
Nowhere. The sting of it comes from your lack of alternatives: Kiera has the decadence of the Nasrys estate to long for, a world she was born for. You hear the word home and think only of charcoal sketches, a soft mouth, laughter in the nighttime. No kingdom can hold your heart down, no man’s house can lure you in. It leaves you unburdened, but cold.
Valarr just shrugs. “I’ll visit in the morning, then, once she’s rested. Perhaps you should rest as well.”
“Perhaps.” You stand right where you are, waiting for him to move first.
His footsteps echo down the long hall, and you slip back inside Kiera’s chambers once you’re sure he’s gone.
“Was that Valarr?”
You jump, turning from the closed door to find Kiera sitting up in bed. She’s rubbing at her eyes and frowning, looking from you to the door and back again.
“Yes,” you sigh, padding over to her. The great windows of her chamber let the night air in, a soft breeze stirring the curtains. “He wanted to see you, but I told him to let you sleep. He’ll see you in the morning.”
“Oh.”
You glance up from where you’re bent over, unlacing your slippers, and find Kiera still frowning.
“What’s wrong?”
“Well, I mean . . . I would want to see him, if he comes again. Even if the hour is late.”
You snort, straightening up again. “Why would you want to see him?”
“Because I’m marrying him, qeloi.”
The word makes your thoughts stumble over one another, a barricade to your thinking. Marrying. Kiera and that princeling will be married, sooner rather than later. He will be able to enter her chambers whenever he wishes, have ones they share together – shared chambers that her handmaiden surely will not be permitted entry to.
“I know that,” you stammer, brow furrowed. “But he’s – I mean, it could be dangerous.”
Kiera just sighs, which is worse than arguing. “Perhaps.”
You are stuck, feeling suddenly like an intruder. This is the room he has provided for her, full of things he had purchased for her. His betrothed, his future wife. She will hold his hand and wear his House colours and mother his children. She will be his, and you will be a relic.
“I will leave you to rest,” you say, turning to flee.
“Qeloi, please –”
You slip through the door before she can finish, and nearly trip over the obstacle set right in your path. The crate is large and stamped with foreign words, some in Common and some in Valyrian dialects. You brush the Tyroshi sigil and lift the lid.
Golden apples. Dozens of them, stacked neat and careful, pristine.
You close the lid, and head back to your room.
Kiera’s wedding gown is sewn with pearls, a thousand tiny souls from a thousand tiny creatures. You ghost a fingertip along their smooth edges, watching them glisten in the dappled sunlight. It would have taken a team of ten divers a whole week just to find them, and you can picture the mountain of shells discarded, cracked open and hollow. You swallow down the same feeling, letting it settle in the pit of your stomach.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been this beautiful before,” Kiera whispers, and the maids exchange glances at the sound of Tyroshi. You ignore them – the mother tongue of their new Princess will make its home in the Red Keep, whether they care for its soft flourishes or not.
“I do,” you whisper back. “But this is a close second.”
Kiera laughs, and you don’t press it, don’t make her see that you’re deadly serious.
Westerosi weddings are a dull affair, even for Princes, even in the capital. There’s talk among servants that it could be even plainer – Northerners marry in the woods, apparently, kneeling in the dirt, but you’d take the greenery over the lifeless stone of the sept any day. The whole building echoes like it’s crying out for help, and you stand at the back of the audience, between two ladies in waiting. They grin and clap and giggle the whole while, and you try not to sour their mood.
Kiera is a vision from some distant dreamworld, and Valarr is a song come to life. His armour is less dour than the black ridiculousness you’ve seen him in, shining silver under the many candle flames, and he doesn’t look away from Kiera, even when the septon asks him to speak his vow. When they kiss, she reaches up to touch the side of his face, and for a moment the silver streak in his hair looks like a mark she’s left on him, some heavenly blessing.
You think for a moment of the apricots, plump and perfect, that have been waiting for you on your bed each night for a week. You hand them to the first serving girl you see when you emerge in the morning, hoping to hand your bitterness over as well. But it still roils within you as you watch him kiss his wife, your sunlight. You clap like a puppet as they pass you, hand in hand.
The Princess’ handmaiden does not attend the wedding feast, but she does wait in the kitchens for the scraps to be thrown away. You pick at a half-eaten apple cake, a cheerful serving girl and a grey-haired cook helping you polish it off. The two of them chat idly, but you stand with your chin propped in your palm, leaning over the kitchen counter. You listen to the sounds of the feast outside, the laughing and dancing and music. Kiera is somewhere in it, taken by the tide of the night. You hope she’s still smiling.
“I’m going to get some fresh air,” you say, pushing yourself off of the counter. “Finish the pigeon for me?”
The cook looks up, frowning. “Take these, at least. Pain to make, and I don’t wanna throw them to the pigs.”
He holds up a stained dishcloth, a handful of golden honeyfingers nestled into its centre. You accept the gift, holding them close to your chest.
“Thank you. The Princess appreciates your efforts.”
“Just the Princess?” He asks, brow raised, and you give him a quiet smile.
“No, not just her.”
The Red Keep’s gardens are a maze in the dark, and you push through its flowers and their overwhelming perfume until you see it: the sea, crashing steady against the shores of King’s Landing. Its breeze is a balm to your nerves, and you let it wash over you as you watch its motions.
Kiera’s bedroom window in Tyrosh looked out over the sea, and you can almost hear the sounds of the fishermen, the pearl and shell divers, the ruckus of the city beneath you. You and Kiera would lean on the windowsill, watching the waves in the darkness, and count the boats coming in to port. A ship is always an exciting thing to a child, but a ship come in the nighttime? The truth of freedom, of stepping onto a vessel and having the sea carry you somewhere entirely new? It was a waking dream for the two of you, when no one was around to scold you for wasting time looking at the damn harbour.
Now, Valarr Targaryen is in Kiera’s bedchamber. You can picture it: his armour and tunic removed, discarded on the floor in a heap. Kiera on the bed, untying her own underclothes, waiting for him. You frown, the image of Valarr going hazy in your mind. Kiera you can imagine with perfect clarity, every part of her you’ve ever touched. But the princeling is a mystery – you realize you’ve never seen him in anything but armour and heavy, draping outerwear.
You try not to imagine anything further, but it’s a difficult thing. You know what wedding nights are for. You and Kiera both have spent your whole lives preparing for the reality of it, but the preparation seems to fail you when you have your imagination to torment yourself with. Valarr is not so much bigger than her, not like some other men here, but Kiera would never shirk the advances of her husband. She knows when to be stubborn and when to play the game, and you’ve seen her talking with Valarr, smiling with him, whispering and grazing and staring –
Suddenly, the ocean isn’t big enough. You need to wash off the horror of your thoughts, of what is happening somewhere in this awful palace without you there to stop it. The Targaryen prince can do whatever he wishes with his wife, and you feel like a child for thinking you could stop it. That you could carve this marriage into something to shelter Kiera with, that you could tame a dragon.
The gardens are ready to swallow you up when you retreat into them, stumbling over the stones and following the sound of the distant brook. You burst through the trees, your hands trembling, and splash right into the water. The cold of it shocks you, right to your marrow, and you crouch down and plunge your hands into its gentle current.
It’s a long moment before you can breathe without it getting caught in your throat. You swallow down a curse, comporting yourself back into what the night requires of you. You stand, wiping the cold water on your too-warm face, and Valarr Targaryen stares at you from between the trees.
You can picture him now.
He’s in a loose linen shirt, tucked into high-waisted trousers. His boots are caked in mud and he has one hand braced against a tree trunk. His shoulders are soft, his arms lean, every line of his silhouette drawn for nobility, for accepting surrenders.
“Apologies, my lady.” He steps through the trees, hardly a stone’s throw from your shivering, wretched form. “I didn’t think anyone would be out at this hour.”
“I didn’t think so either.” You pause. “And I am no lady.”
“As you say,” the Prince nods, though he looks unperturbed. He looks to the sky, the moonlight barely reaching through the leaves.
“Is Kiera alright?” The question forces its way out of you.
Valarr frowns. “Kiera? Yes, she was asleep when I left.”
You laugh, a sound as startlingly cold as the brook. It cracks through the gardens, your misery too much for the flowers to contain.
“When you left.” You step out of the water, and you can feel every bump of the earth under your soaked slippers. “And before that – you fulfilled your duty, yes?”
“We – my duty?”
“You’re married now,” you spit, the word poison on your tongue. “You have her. Now, you can skulk around your little gardens all you like, fucking serving girls or –”
“I am not here to fuck serving girls.” Valarr’s reply slices through the haze of your anger, his voice lower and harder than you’ve ever heard it. “Kiera is my wife.”
“And what does that mean in your world?” You snap. “Where wives are taken like prize broodmares, chosen for their bloodlines? Where she belongs to you from the moment you say your wedding vows?”
“I don’t know what marriages are like in Tyrosh –”
“Marriages in Tyrosh are like marriages everywhere – they get women killed, or make them wish they had been. And marriages to powerful men? The worst hell you can imagine.”
“If marrying me was such a doomed cause, why follow her here to witness it?”
“Because I would never let her do it alone,” you snap, lifting your chin. “I would never abandon her to the likes of you.”
Valarr stares at you, wide-eyed and stricken. “What have I done to make you distrust me so horribly? Who do you think I am that you imagine me becoming her captor, her tormentor?”
“A Prince,” you say. “Who may one day become a King, which is even worse. I don’t need to know you to fear what you may do to her.”
“And if I swear to you?”
You blink, frozen. Valarr is a phantom in the night’s shadows, his face washed pale and his eyes gleaming dark. The trees shelter him from the glow of the moonlight, but you can still see the tension that wracks his body, the furious rise and fall of his chest. He is a demon, a villain in a fairytale that will teach you a lesson about trust, about strangers and oaths and hindsight.
The brook laps at your feet as you cross its boundary, darting through the trees. Your palm is shoved into the Prince’s chest, and your other hand holds the blade to the hollow of his throat. The tiny curve of the paring knife winks at you, looking like the measliest act of treason ever committed.
And this is treason. The thought crosses your mind somewhere between your hand on the Prince’s chest and his back hitting the trunk of the tree. His heart pounds beneath your splayed fingertips, but he doesn’t move a muscle. You look up at him slowly, as though you’re the one who should be nervous.
Valarr swallows, and you can feel his throat kiss the edge of the blade.
“If you swear, you do it with blood, and you do it on something that matters.” You do not break eye contact with him, waiting for his answer. You think you could wait here all night if that’s what it takes.
“Do you have any gods in mind?”
“Did you not marry your wife in a sept yesterday?”
“The septon is a pawn of the crown,” Valarr says, looking past you as he thinks. “There’s not a thing he could do to me, should I break a vow.”
“Very reassuring,” you hiss, and Valarr purses his mouth, considering.
“Do you worship in Tyrosh?”
“Many temples are built in Tyrosh, but gold is a much better thing for men to put their faith in. More tangible, less punishing.”
“Gold can be plenty punishing,” Valarr says, and you glare at him.
“Your dragons?”
“The dragons are all gone, have been for decades.”
“Is there nothing that is a threat to you?”
“Your blade at my neck is plenty threatening. Perhaps I should swear on it?”
“Perhaps you should think harder.”
“Perhaps you should plan your treason more carefully.” He isn’t frowning, but you flinch all the same. The knife grazes his throat and you jerk it away entirely, searching for blood but finding nothing but cool, unblemished skin beneath your fingertips. You place its edge against him once more, but Valarr is watching you with a furrowed brow, and his hand rises to brush your wrist, still poised to strike.
“I swear on all the gods, even the ones that don’t matter, and every wicked prince you’ve ever met, that I will never harm Kiera Nasrys.”
“Kiera Targaryen, now,” you whisper, unmoving.
“Kiera Targaryen.” Valarr’s fingers close around your wrist. “I swear on your love for her, which is very capable of holding me to my word.”
The paring knife dips from his neck, and Valarr’s mouth quirks into a rueful smile.
“And on my love for her, which is very real.”
You tear yourself from him, and Valarr lets you stumble for a moment before his hand moves to your arm, steadying you on your feet. The night seems to press in on you, impossibly dark and silent. His words cling to your skin worse than the water’s chill, and his hand is so warm on your flesh that you think it might leave a burn when he moves it away.
“I – this wasn’t –”
“I will see you tomorrow, I imagine,” Valarr says, letting go of you and turning away. “Kiera said she wanted me to show her the Kingswood, and I can’t think of anyone else better to safeguard my wife from me.”
Kiera loves the Kingswood, and Tumbleton, and Ashford, and every simpering noble House that open their arms for their beloved Prince. They take her in, gift her fine dresses and scarves and trinkets. She eats their food, drinks their wine, and delights them with stories about the far reaches of Essos.
You watch them smile to her face, and then scowl and snicker when she leaves the room, her handmaiden of no consequence to Westerosi nobility. Many of them do not believe you speak Common, and you do not correct them. Better to let them show you who they are, what this kingdom really is, without having to pry the truth from them.
Valarr seems determined to bring his new wife to every square inch of Westeros, and that means weeks of travel for all three of you. Kiera and Valarr ride together in the royal carriage, while you struggle to follow on horseback. As a child, the Dothraki idolization of such creatures confused you – horses were not fearsome, not dangerous. It doesn’t take you long to realize how wrong you were, and the safety and privacy of the carriage becomes one more thing for you to resent Valarr Targaryen for.
“Can you believe how big Westeros really is?”
You look sideways at Kiera as you fix her hair, threading tiny yellow blossoms through her curls. “Enormous, velei. You’d need a lifetime to see it all.”
“Good thing we have one.”
She doesn’t know. Kiera can’t know, not about the paring knife at the Prince’s neck, not the wandering in the gardens. Valarr’s oath that night must be a secret from her, or you’re certain she would not look at you the way she still does, her eyes shining. She would not let your hands stray so close to her own throat.
You think about his oath every night, as you make your way through the vast emptiness and frivolity of his country. It feels like brushing dust from an ancient relic, revealing its brittle, sacred details. His hand, too hot, and his gaze, swallowing you whole even as you threatened his life. You have not been alone with him since, and you count your blessings every day that continues.
“I was thinking, perhaps you might want to wear one of the dresses Valarr’s had made – there’s so many, I won’t be able to wear them all before we return to King’s Landing. That one would look beautiful on you.”
The gown in question is piled on the bed alongside its Westerosi breathren, a shade of red so deep it looks like how a heartbeat feels. Its panels are sewn together with delicate beading, hundreds of tiny red and black crystals shining in the light. The finest thing you would have ever worn, if you agree to slip into it. You snort.
“They don’t need me to be beautiful, they need me to be out of the way.”
“I don’t know, I thought you might like to feast with us tonight.”
You pause, fingers stilling in her hair, and Kiera looks at you in the mirror.
Sitting here in the Rowan estate, dressed in long layers of green and gold and her hair fading to a pale auburn, Kiera’s glance strikes you as one so foreign that you have to look away. You drop your hands from her hair, stepping back and fiddling with the oils and paints packed for the Princess’ touring.
“Qeloi.”
You snap the trunk shut and look up. Kiera stands and moves slowly towards you, her palms up like she’s nervous you’ll flee. Some muddy, wide-eyed creature of the woods. The kind of thing that belongs splashing in brooks, baring teeth when caught in a trap. Your gown feels too fine, too easily torn, and your hands too greasy with oil.
“My love,” Kiera whispers, and you don’t move an inch. “I didn’t mean – I just want you to be happy. We can be happy here.”
“I am happy,” you say, and the lie is an ugly thing between the two of you. “I am with you.”
“You are caretaking,” Kiera hisses, and you recoil. “You are watching me like an unruly child, and you – you must see what I see, what Valarr is – he wants you to be happy, too –”
“He wants me gone,” you snap. Your heart hammers against your ribcage, and you think it’s afraid it might be broken if you keep talking. “He wants me to leave, to find some man who will take me as his whore, and then he’ll be free to do whatever he pleases.”
“You would never be anyone’s whore –”
“Yes, I would.” You swallow past the painful lump in your throat, embarassment rising in you like vomit. “I am not like you, or the princeling, or the ladies he knows. I would not be coveted, or adored, or safe. I would be someone’s whore, a sea away from the world I know, and you would be alone.”
Kiera’s face crumples and she reaches for you. “Qeloi –”
A knock on the bedroom door, and you could well and truly kill him this time.
“Kiera, my love?”
The word knocks against your skull, worms its way inside, rots there. Kiera looks to you, then the door. Valarr, presumably, waits in the hall like an idiot.
“Come inside, Your Grace,” you call, and Kiera presses her lips together, her eyes glossy with tears. “The Princess is ready.”
Valarr opens the door as you storm out. You meet his eyes as he steps inside and you step out, Kiera’s gaze burning into your back as you go. Valarr looks over your head to his wife, and you close the door behind you without another word.
The feast is a grand thing, House Rowan pulling out all the stops for their Prince and Princess. The hall smells divine and the wine flows freely – you accept a cup, taking a delicate sip and coughing. It tastes foreign, sour, but its perfume is rich and heady. You sigh, shifting in your seat, trying to find something beautiful in the mess that is Westerosi celebration.
“I thought I knew every beautiful woman in Westeros.”
You look up through your lashes, not deigning to tilt your chin for this stranger. The man hovering above you is tall, his shadow looming across you like he’s staking his claim. His eyes sparkle and his smile is sharp, and you don’t trust him one bit.
“You do, my lord,” you say, taking another drink of wine. It’s hard to swallow, but you manage.
“But I don’t know you,” he says, and drops into the seat next to you. “Although you look so familiar.”
“The wine, I’m sure.” You turn to face him, fighting to keep your face neutral. “I do not know the lords and ladies of your country.” But I know what you are behind closed doors. You hold your sour wine and swirl it around, watching him study you. His face is so open, a shell pried apart to reveal its glimmering, precious secrets to the world. He must be dangerous in other ways, to be so blatant in his feelings.
“Well, I am Lord Lyonel Baratheon, but let me guess your story,” he demands, lounging back against the table. His eyes trace you, and you hold still under his scrutiny, instinct taking hold of you. This is not the first man to assess you for your value, and it will certainly not be the last.
“You still dress in the Eastern fashion,” he says, nodding.
“I am more comfortable this way,” you shrug, and he smiles.
“I never said it didn’t suit you. A beautiful lady from Essos, venturing across the Narrow Sea. You don’t care for the wine, and you don’t know the dances.”
“A foreigner through and through,” you agree, grimacing when you try to take another drink. “But I am no lady, my lord.”
“Oh?” He frowns, then a fresh grin breaks across his face, a clap of lightning in a storm. “You’ve come with the new Princess then! Her little companion.”
“Handmaiden,” you correct.
“Handmaiden,” he agrees. “Are ladies in waiting not still ladies in Tyrosh?”
“Handmaidens are not ladies in waiting,” you say, looking away from him. “Being chosen as one is not an honour, it is a trade.”
The words are more sour than the wine, and you find your gaze drifting from this ridiculous lord. You don’t realize what you’re looking for until you find her: Kiera, twirling to the music, her head tilted up to laugh. Valarr’s hand is in hers, and you watch him touch the side of her jaw, bring her eyes to his. The way Kiera smiles at him makes you nauseous, and you snap your gaze away from them.
Lyonel Baratheon’s smile has quieted, his eyes softened as he watches you.
“You long for someone,” he says, like you’re sharing a secret. “And you cannot have them, can you? That’s why you’re so miserable, hiding in the corner.”
You grip the edge of the table for support, your stomach roiling. “I do not know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” He pauses, his smile growing sly. “You know, everyone I spoke to said the Princess’ handmaiden didn’t speak a lick of Common. That you were simple as a mule, standing in the corner waiting for her instruction.”
“People think many things. I am not obliged to correct them.”
“No,” he agrees, getting to his feet. “You’re not. You’re not obliged to do anything here – you’re not in Tyrosh any longer.”
His eyes stray to your neck, and you know in that moment that he’s heard. The Free Cities and their customs, the collars. He probably wants to know where yours is. You and Kiera know that it sank to the bottom of the Narrow Sea, tossed overboard with her mouth on yours and your free hand cupping her jaw. You needed something precious to anchor you, now that servitude couldn’t weigh you down onto the earth, and you held onto Kiera like you might float away into the night sky.
“Obligation is not restricted to Essos, my lord.” You rise to meet him, setting your cup down.
“Well, you have no obligation to me,” he says, holding out a hand, palm up and waiting. “But I think you’d enjoy a dance or two. Forget what ails you. It’s the only solution that isn’t wine.”
Your mouth twists as you consider him, his waiting hand. Someone laughs nearby, and you flinch. Your hand darts to his, fingers curling around his broad palm, and he tugs you closer.
“I’ll tell you the steps,” he says softly, and leads you to the dancing.
Westerosi dancing is a chaotic affair, although it might be the flowing wine that has everyone cackling and pushing and clapping. Lyonel pulls you along, spinning you with a gleam in his eyes.
“You’re not bad!” He laughs, tipping his head back, and his hands find your shoulders. “But you’re so stiff, you need to relax!”
“Unlikely, my lord,” you mutter, and he responds by scooping you up, his hands under your thighs.
You gasp, a strangled, embarrassing sound, and wriggle in his grasp as he parades you through the leaping, twirling onlookers.
“This lovely woman says she cannot relax!” He announces, and the faces of the crowd blur around you as you spin together. Held like this, you look down at him, hands braced on his broad shoulders. “Someone get her a cup of wine! Or pear brandy, if we have it – our swill is like vinegar to her!”
“My lord, what are you doing?” You hiss, pushing an inch of space between the two of you, and he smiles helplessly up at you.
“Helping you forget, for an evening, my lady,” he whispers. “And finding some pear brandy, because I really do love it.”
“I told you, I am no lady.”
“You could be, if you pretend.”
“But I am not,” you insist, kicking your feet to try and free yourself. “I am not a lady, and I’ve never had pear brandy, and –”
“Well, would you like to try it? Surely it would be an adventure, having the drink of your masters –”
Your teeth sink into his ear with a taste like sweat and cypress oil. He swears and lowers you with a grand twirl. You stumble on your feet, leaning into him to remain upright as you continue in the dance.
“You know, normally that would be a punishable offense,” he murmurs, and your eyes snap to his, defense and apology ready to trip off of your tongue.
“But you seem to be punished enough as it is.” He laughs, his hands finding your own and guiding you through the next steps. “And I’m nothing if not merciful.”
“You consider this mercy?” You demand, and he nods.
“For you, yes. For the source of your torment? Not in the least.”
He nods to something over your shoulder, and you follow his gaze as he spins you around. Across the feast hall, Kiera and Valarr have their eyes locked on you. They sit next to each other at the high table, wine served and attendants fanning them, and neither of them are paying the slightest attention to the impassioned speech some Goldengrove lord is performing for them. Kiera’s hand is on Valarr’s thigh, one of his clasped over top of it, and you blink as Lyonel twirls you back to face him. He’s grinning, something devilish in his dark eyes.
“My only question is which of them you covet,” he whispers, and your breath hitches. “Although, with the way they’re both watching you, I’d say you don’t have much to worry about, dearheart.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter, dazed as you catch sight of them again. Kiera turns, whispers something to Valarr, and he shakes his head, still watching you. Lyonel spins you, takes you by the waist.
“There are many things I don’t know,” he allows with a laugh, stepping back from you and accepting a cup from a servant. “But wanting? Wanting I know quite well.”
“I . . .” You shake your head, as though you can clear the haze from it.
“You . . . what? Don’t want either of them?” He chuckles, taking a long drink from his cup and sighing in contentment. “If that’s the case, I’ll make my own proposition. But I fear you’ll reject me outright.”
“You would be correct,” you say, and Lyonel barks a laugh.
“Then, share a drink with me to ease the pain of such rejection. It’s the least you can do, and it will drive whichever one you want wild.”
“I told you, I’ve never had pear brandy.”
“Then something else,” he says, downing the last of his brandy in a single swig. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning. “Plenty of options. Strongwines, honeywines. Or something from Essos?”
“I’ve never had . . . drink was watered, especially for women.” Especially for someone in a collar. You remember the taste: bitter, anemic, only when you felt ill. Wine tastes like sickness to you, sour with the memory of what you couldn’t have and what you weren’t allowed to refuse.
Lyonel nods, scratching his jaw as he considers you. “Rowan has a store of foreign liquor – persimmon, pepperwine, apricot . . .”
“I like apricots.”
The smile that splits his face is radiant, and Lyonel grabs for the nearest servant, sending him skittering away with a roar of delight.
“Apricot wine,” he cheers, taking you by the hand and twirling you around. “Something you might actually enjoy – it’s a miracle! I promise I won’t tell anyone you liked anything tonight, though, don’t worry.”
“I like plenty of things,” you argue.
“Like biting noblemen and lusting after royalty?”
“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, and he shrugs.
“Everyone’s drunk, my lady. No one is listening to us.”
“No one is listening to me,” you correct him, frowning. “You happen to be a lord of something.”
“A lord of something.” He watches you with a faint smile as the servant reappears, two cups in hand. “No wonder they’re looking at you like that.”
Your cheeks flame as you accept the cup. Inside, the drink is a vivid orange, glossy under the candlelight. When you sniff it, its perfume makes your head spin.
“The finest thing Meereen has to offer,” Lyonel says, and you flinch, some wine sloshing over the side and onto your hand.
“Meereen?”
“All the strangest liquor comes from Slavers’ Bay.” He swirls his own drink, inhaling with a dramatic sigh. “This is what those masters drink in their great towers, looking out over their quaint little empires.”
You can picture it now: the packed city streets, the walls too high to climb over, the sound of chains. The decadent apartments of some wealthy trader, ringed fingers clutching a second cup of this very wine. The collar on the girl who pours it for him, the way her eyes follow the stream of its nectar, the hollow feeling in her stomach. To be kept is to be unsatiated. To serve but never sate hunger, to pour but never slake thirst.
When you tip the cup back, you drain it to the last drop. It burns and sings at once, sweet and bright on your tongue. You look to Lyonel, who watches you with parted lips and wide eyes, before he cackles.
“Pour her another, would you?”
You let him spin you as the music picks up, another lively tune striking the air, and you lick the sticky wine from the back of your hand, wipe your lower lip with it.
Across the hall, Kiera and Valarr stand and depart, and Lyonel Baratheon hands you a second cup.
Apricot wine agrees with you far better than the Arbor reds did, and it turns your night dreamy with giddiness. You traipse down the halls of Goldengrove hours later, music still ringing in your ears, slippers stumbling a bit on the floor.
When you open the door of your chamber, the Prince of Westeros is sitting on your cot. The room is an empty servant’s quarters, and its tiny space makes Valarr seem so much bigger than he is when he stands. You freeze, hand still on the door handle.
“This is not Kiera’s chamber,” you say slowly.
“It isn’t,” Valarr agrees. His face is tight, his mouth pursed. You squint at him, trying to steady his image through the haze of liquor.
“Then . . . what are you doing here? It’s so late, it’s the hour of . . . not the owl . . . not the bat . . .” You trail off, thinking, and snort. “Hour of the dragon.”
“You’re drunk.”
You’re still giggling as you step further inside, bending down to unlace your slippers. “Obviously, Your Grace. Apricots are very good, and their wine is even better. If I didn’t want Meereen burned to the ground, perhaps I’d thank them for it – whoa!”
You swear, losing your balance and falling onto your knees. You push yourself up and finish untying your slippers, toeing them off and sighing in relief.
“Would you like to explain why you got drunk with Lyonel Baratheon?”
“Kiera told me to have fun,” you say, looking up at Valarr from the floor. He seems so tall, a tower looming over you, scowling. “I was having fun.”
“You’re determined to put yourself in danger,” he mutters, and you push yourself to your feet, swaying and furious. The giddiness has evaporated, anger pulsing through you in its place.
“I am capable –”
“Kiera is afraid for you,” Valarr interrupts you. “All the time, now. The way people talk about you, the way you behave so recklessly –”
“The whole point of getting on that ship was so I could be free!”
“Free to what? Throw your life away?”
“No, be free to – to be free! Have you ever been owned, Your Grace?”
Valarr sighs through his nose, a quick, frustrated sound that sets your teeth on edge. “I am the Prince of the Realm, of course I know what it’s like not to be in charge of my own life –”
“I didn’t ask if you were a Prince,” you spit. The words come tumbling out of you, overflowing from the well in your heart, that hollow, echoing place. The wine has unloosed them, and you cannot seem to pour them back in. “I asked if you’ve ever been owned. If you’ve ever worn a collar. If you’ve ever known that you could be sold, traded, bartered for and with. If, to the core of your being, no matter how pleasnt they were about it, no one around you thought you were a person?” You laugh, and its bitterness turns the air rancid. “Have you?”
Valarr’s jaw tenses as he looks at you, taking a deep breath. “No. I haven’t.”
“My life is Kiera’s,” you croak. You’re suddenly so tired, the fight draining from you in an instant. “I am free, but I am hers. And I am trying to make this good, I am trying to be happy . . .”
“Is it really so impossible? To be happy while I’m here?”
You scrub at your face, trying to focus. The currents in your mind are running over and under each other, anger and exhaustion and some rising, frightened thing all rushing together over you. It’s too much to feel, too much to understand.
“You can hurt her whenever you want,” you whisper. “You hold the whip.”
Valarr’s face spasms, a flare of something that looks agonizing, before he steps towards you. You do not move, waiting, and the Prince moves past you to pour a cup of water from a pitcher on the rickety table. He holds it out to you, his face shadowed.
“Water should always follow wine,” he says. “Or you’ll wake tomorrow and wish you hadn’t.”
You take the cup with both shaky hands. When you don’t move, Valarr sighs, running a hand through his hair.
“Drink, please,” he urges you. “You’ll feel better.”
“I feel fine, Your Grace.”
“You lie better when you’re sober. And don’t – please stop calling me that.”
You sip the water, and it’s lukewarm but a blessing on your tongue. Before you know it, the cup is empty. “That is what you call Princes here.”
“I am not your Prince,” Valarr says. “I am Kiera’s husband.”
“And what do I call Kiera’s husband?”
“Valarr.”
You stare at him, your exhaustion making this all feel so far away. “Valarr?”
When you say his name, he gives a short, low sigh, and nods to the cot. “You’re comfortable here?”
“It’s better than no bed,” you shrug, dropping to sit on the edge of it. The sheets are scratchy wool, but they’ll be nice and warm. “There are worse things.”
“You . . . try and sleep.”
“I think I will manage to,” you say, and your sentence is split by a yawn.
Valarr stands in the doorway, turned to shadow by the light in the hallway behind him. You watch him from between languid blinks, your mind turning fuzzy with weariness. You think you hear him laugh, but the quiet sound is fractured as you close your eyes.
“Goodnight, qelos.”
Life in King’s Landing goes on, after the royal retinue returns from Goldengrove. Maids return to their duties and squires return to their knights. It’s only you that has returned to nothing, your only purpose since arriving in Westeros abandoning you.
Kiera is married and a Princess now, and has plenty of maids and servants to do her washing and make her bed. You have so much free time, now that other people are caring for the woman you love.
You hardly know what to do with yourself, so you keep your hands busy and your head down. The Princess and her Prince parade about the Red Keep daily, and you scuttle out of their way like a pest hiding in the walls, stealing crumbs when they aren’t around. You take your meals in your small chamber, languish over pastries and leave the fruit untouched. You embroider enough to trade for a single gold piece, which you spend immediately. Lemon oil, its perfume bright and soothing, sits in a place of honour on your nightstand in a glass phial. You daub it onto your wrists and behind your ears every morning.
The isolation might be killing you, withering away some vital part of you. But hot, heavy shame keeps you locked away, scurrying in the shadows of a palace that never loved you. How can you look Kiera in the eye again, after the incident at Goldengrove? How can you look at Valarr? You, drunk on apricot wine and twirling with Lyonel Baratheon, entertaining the vultures of Westerosi nobility? Playing the foreign little fool for their amusement, tarnishing Kiera’s name in the process, making the Prince look stupid?
It’s the stars that beg you to venture out. You can see them through the tiny window in your chamber, twinkling high above the rot of the city. The nighttime begs for your attention, and you drift from your chamber as though in a spell. The halls are empty, the courtyards flooded with shadows. You ghost through them all, moving towards the gardens.
The trees welcome you, old friends you’ve returned to. Perhaps not every part of this palace is so loveless, you think. Some of it has grown on you, wrung some drop of affection from your stubborn heart. You touch the tree trunks as you pass them, giving them your greetings.
You can hear the brook nearby, but its waters do not tempt you tonight. It is finally a moment of true solitude: no feasts, no weddings, no princelings or masters. Just you and your bitterness, sulking alone.
Kiera has kept busy these last few days, and you cannot remember a time you’ve gone so long without seeing her face. In Tyrosh – but you stop yourself, cling to the cliff before you dive into the memory below. You are not in Tyrosh. You will never go back to Tyrosh. Westeros holds the whip now, and you sigh. If only Kiera had married a man of Naath, perhaps you could spend your days watching butterflies and weaving silk, far from any kings or masters.
But would a man of Naath wait in your chamber, give you water to drink and look at you like he wanted to see inside your raging heart? The thought of Valarr sends a shiver down your spine. His name still rests underneath your tongue, a memory you’ll keep for later, and that instinct makes you nervous. He makes you nervous, makes you forget yourself. He makes you threaten Princes and Kiera makes you get drunk with foreign lords. Between the two of them, you doubt you’ll survive the Winter you keep hearing about.
“Qeloi.”
You turn and catch a face-full of tree branch for your panic. You cough, shoving the foliage aside, and see Kiera laughing behind her hand as she watches you.
“Do not – that is unkind,” you protest, and she just laughs louder, dropping her hand. You’re glad she does. It’s been too long since you’ve seen her smile.
“It is unkind,” she agrees. She lifts her skirts as she tip-toes through the grass, picking her way towards you. “But you’ve been unkind, avoiding me.”
You press your lips together, looking away. Shame contorts within you.
“You can make it up to me,” Kiera continues, gliding before you.
“Come to bed,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. Your eyes flutter shut, relishing the contact, before opening to meet hers.
“Yours or mine?”
A silly question: you both know Kiera’s bed is the one you adore, and you don’t hide it when you plunge into its fluffy, silken depths. Kiera laughs as you peel off your dressing gown, revealing the thin chemise beneath. She rubs the fabric between her fingers and gives you a sly smile.
“This is the one I had made for you,” she says, and you just shrug.
“Who am I to deny a gift from my Princess?”
You let her shove you backwards into the pillows, which catch you in the softest embrace you’ve ever felt. Kiera clambers on top of you, ever the gremlin, and holds your face in her hands.
“May your Princess ask you for one more thing?”
“Anything, Your Grace.”
She dips down to kiss you, slow and careful. Her words are whispered against your mouth when she pulls back.
“Never leave me.”
“I suppose that includes sleeping in my own bed tonight,” you whisper back, and she nods, smiling against your cheek.
“Absolutely.”
The sounds of the hearth and the gentle breeze outside settle over the two of you, warmer than any blanket, and you curl as close to Kiera’s chest as you can. One of her legs is slung over yours, and your fingers trace absent shapes between her shoulder blades.
“I almost forgot,” Kiera whispers. “I have a proposition for you.”
“Oh?” You kiss her chin, heart fluttering. “Is it something I’ll like?”
“I think so, in time,” she says, then raises her voice. “My love?”
You look up from where you’re nestled against her, and you feel your heart stop.
Valarr Targaryen strikes an imposing silhouette, standing proud at the foot of his wife’s bed. The fire that crackles in the hearth casts him in shadows, golden light flickering over the soft slope of his nose, the small pinch between his brows. He watches you, tangled in his wife’s bedsheets, and says nothing.
“Your Grace –” The words are bile in your mouth, and for a moment you really think you might be sick. You hurry to throw yourself from the bed, heart hammering, bare feet on the cold stone floor. Your knees scrape it when you kneel, hands braced on your thighs, not daring to look up.
“It is not her fault,” you say, your voice hoarse. What are the laws here, for women laying with women? And why is Kiera not hiding, her hands warm on your bicep as she tugs at you? She should be running, or cursing you, or waiting in the shadows until the danger passes. You want to tell her to run. “I’m – it’s my fault, I was stupid, I wanted – I only wanted – ”
“Qeloi.”
Kiera’s voice is a balm to your frazzled nerves, and she manages to pull you upright enough to face the judgement of her husband. The Prince is still staring, eyes raking over you – and you’re still half-naked, the wispy slip of a nightgown open down the front. Every inch of you burns with shame and terror, and you whip your head back to face Kiera, who is –
Smiling. She’s smiling.
It’s shaky, but unmistakable. Her hand moves slowly from your arm to the small of your back.
“He knows.” Her whisper is right next to your ear, and she presses a gentle kiss to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your jaw. “He knows, qeloi. It’s alright.”
Your eyes find Valarr’s through the darkness, and you watch him take a tentative step closer, watch him kneel down next to you. His hand is pale in the shadows when he holds it out to you, palm up.
“Please stand up.”
You scramble to your feet, wobbly from terror, and press yourself against the side of the mattress, as far from him as you can. You’re still within arm’s reach, and you watch the movement of his hand as it drops back to his side.
He’s dressed down, in soft nightclothes, and their red velvet makes him look softer. You tug your nightdress over your front, holding it closed and curling in on yourself.
“I never meant to frighten you,” he says. You only stare back. “We thought it best to ease into a – a discussion. About this.”
“About what, my love?” Kiera puts an arm around you, tucking herself close to you as you shiver. She’s watching Valarr, and you can hear the smile in her words. “You said you could say it without blushing.”
“I –” And he is blushing. The Targaryen Prince is no more, leaving only Valarr, pink-cheeked and looking somewhere to the left of you. “It is a difficult subject.”
“I swear,” Kiera sighs dramatically. “The pair of you and your delicacy.”
“I am not delicate,” you mutter, and Kiera snorts.
“No? A single moment of wanting, and you both fall apart at the seams.”
The word seems to pin you in place: wanting. Valarr’s eyes stray to you, and you grip the edge of the mattress, seeking some anchor in this current of feeling.
“You will not hurt her for this?” You ask. Kiera’s hand tightens on your arm. “For . . . what we are, to each other?”
“I swore on it.”
You nod. “Good.”
You tear yourself from Kiera, unsteady but quick, and make for the door.
“I will see you both in the morning.”
The halls feel too empty on your way back to your chamber. Neither of them follow you, and it’s impossible to say if that’s a good thing or not. You collapse across your bed, bare feet frigid from the walk, and press your face into your pillow, hoping to blot out the lingering scent of Kiera’s sheets, of the garden breeze drifting through her windows. Outside, the moon hangs full and heavy, fruit waiting to be picked.
You’re summoned to breakfast with the Prince and Princess in the gardens, and you arrive to Kiera and Valarr already waiting, whispering together as they lean over the spread.
“- you don’t understand, it’ll only make it – oh!” Kiera cuts herself off, looking up at you with a beaming smile. She’s draped in flowing layers of copper silk, and there’s a tiny yellow flower tucked behind her ear. In the sunshine, she looks like she emerged from the gardens themselves, some woodland spirit of old. “I thought you’d gotten lost.”
“No,” you say, and look down at the table. The only empty seat is right between the two of them. “I just overslept.”
“Are you feeling alright?” Kiera asks, reaching up to touch your forehead with the back of her hand as you slowly sit down. “You don't have a headache, do you?”
“I think I was just tired,” you shrug off her worry, placing your hands in your lap. “I'm alright.”
“Perhaps you should rest for the day,” she persists, pouring tea into all three cups. It smells of berries, and your first sip is a relief to your dry throat. “You could pose for me.”
You flinch, your hand knocking against your plate with a clatter that echoes your rattling heart.
“Pose?”
You look to Valarr, and this is a mistake. There is something so initimate in the way he looks at Kiera, soft and unguarded, that your breath catches. When he turns the look onto you, it has warmth creeping from your cheeks all the way down to your toes. He takes a sip of tea, looking back to Kiera, and you manage to exhale.
“I don’t only paint landscapes,” Kiera says. “I practiced portraits with her for ages. Most of them turned out hideous, but I got better.”
“Yes, you did,” you say faintly. “If that’s what you wish, then that’s what we will do.”
Kiera claps and reaches out to scoop some jelly onto her bread, its rich colour sparking familiarity in you.
“Is that golden apple jelly?”
Kiera makes a sound of delight as she bites into it. “They call it quince here, apparently. Valarr purchased some more from a trader at the docks, and they’ve been trying to make it just right for days.”
“And is it?”
Kiera just takes another bite, and Valarr relaxes in his seat with a smile.
“Eat something,” Kiera urges, covering her full mouth. “I won’t have you fainting while I’m sketching you.”
“I . . .”
You look to the table, your hands uncertain. There’s too many colours, too many textures, so much to choose from. The whole spread smells divine. Your fingers dance on the table, studying your options, and you worry your lip between your teeth.
Beside you, Valarr cracks apart half of a pomegranate, its seeds glistening like jewels. He picks a few out, rolling them between his fingers. “It’ll get cold if you wait too long,” he says, and pops the seeds into his mouth.
You claim a piece of toast and spread lemon cream on it, thick and smooth, and the first bite is overwhelming in its tart sweetness. Salt cod and soft cheese, a persimmon slice that crunches perfectly in half with its crispness. A velvety, juicy apricot that you relish every morsel of. You eat as Kiera speaks, laughing and impersonating and teasing Valarr.
“I have a meeting with my father,” Valarr says quietly, draining the last of his tea. “Perhaps I’ll see you later.”
You look over at him, watch the gentle way he places the teacup into it spot, not even making a clink.
“Perhaps you will,” you say, reaching over and plucking a few pomegranate seeds from his plate. “Perhaps Kiera can sketch you.”
The seeds burst tart and bright on your tongue, and Valarr doesn’t blink as he watches you lick the edge of your finger, the red juice left behind. He stands abruptly, nodding to you both and vanishing into the gardens. When you look back to Kiera, she’s already looking at you, her eyes low-lidded and warm.
“I wish I had some parchment right now,” she murmurs, and you just smile.
In Tyrosh, you and Kiera would spend entire days up in her apartments, having meals sent up and avoiding her tutors. You would embroider and Kiera would draw, she would read books to you and you would help her practice her dancing. You would make games out of watching the harbour and the stars, making up stories about new constellations you swore you could see.
In King’s Landing, it’s even easier to while away your time in her chambers, given that the Princess answers to no one and nothing, except perhaps her husband.
“Perhaps we should send for something sweet,” Kiera says from her spot on the bed, just as the door opens. She looks over and a coy smile curls across her face. “Oh, no need – something sweet has come to us, all on its own.”
“My love,” Valarr nods to her, and pauses when he catches your eye. Your heart flutters, and you try and beat back the sensation to no avail. “My lady.”
“I am still not a lady,” you say, but it’s a hard argument when you’re lounging in Kiera’s armchair, warming your feet by her hearth. A half-finished cup of tea rests on the low table next to you, along with the mountain of Kiera’s sketches. You push yourself up from your seat, your hands folded neatly in front of you.
“I think we may have different understandings of the word.” Valarr steps inside and begins to shut the door, and the room suddenly feels far too warm, far too small.
“I shall . . . I will leave you,” you manage to get out, scrambling to gather your wits. You move for the door, looking away from Valarr and push past him into the hall.
“Why would you leave?” He asks, and you can feel the heat of tears brimming just behind your eyes. Your heart pounds, your panic distorting his voice – it’s as though you’re hearing him from some cavernous, empty place, echoing up to you. You turn and see him watching you, the door hanging open. Behind him, Kiera is wide-eyed and fidgeting.
“Because – because you, and your wife –” You purse your lips, frustration building. A single tear scalds its way down your cheek as you look up at him.
“My wife and I would much rather you stay,” Valarr frowns, his hand raising. When you don’t move, he wipes your teartrack away with a gentle swipe of his thumb. “Would you like to?”
“Qeloi,” Kiera says, making her way to stand behind Valarr. “Do you understand what the purpose of last night was?”
Your breath hitches as you fight more tears. “To make him understand. So he may forgive our - our closeness.”
Kiera’s laugh is a shining peal, like a burst of sunlight through the clouds.
“Qeloi, can you tell me what you want?”
“For us to be safe here,” you start, hiccuping and confused, and Kiera laughs again, shaking her head.
“No, not that. What do you want from us?”
Your whole world tilts. The question washes over you, something cleansing in its simplicity, and you hiccup again, your tears slowing as you scrub at your face. Suddenly, you are eating pomegranate seeds from Valarr’s plate, and their juice is ripe and tart in your mouth. Apricot wine is burning through you, honeyfingers flake apart in your hands and leave them sticky with sugar. You are picking golden apples, and someone is waiting below you to catch them. You can already taste them, once split in half, now three ways.
You step slowly into her chamber, swinging the door shut behind you.
“I want . . .” The questions burn in you, and you choose one and ask it with a trembling, desperate mouth. “I want Valarr to kiss me.”
You want the Prince of Westeros, the Blood of the Dragon, to kiss a former slave. It feels too far immediately, a breach of whatever tentative thing was blooming between you.
“Thank the gods,” Valarr breathes, and dips his head.
He tastes like spices and honey, and you think he’s just come from supper, but you let yourself believe that’s just what he’s always been. A bloom so tender, so sweet, that tasting him feels miraculous. His mouth is warm and careful against yours, and he kisses you like he’s savouring it. When he pulls away, your lips part slow and shining.
“Qeloi,” Kiera whispers, and you nod as though in a dream. You waver on the spot, like you might tip over in the breeze. “Would you go and sit on the bed for me?”
You move without hesitation, Kiera’s hands brushing along your back and urging you towards the piles and piles of soft blankets, the mountain of silk in apricot, pomegranate, quince. You pull yourself onto the edge of the mattress, and your whole body feels weightless and uncoordinated.
Valarr stands tall at the foot of the bed, watching you. Time moves around you like honey, and its thickness slows your racing heart, turns your breaths long and slow.
“My love.” Valarr is speaking to Kiera but his eyes have not left you, pinning you in place with their intensity. “Would you tell me what I should do?”
Kiera’s smile curls her words. “Oh, gladly – I’m something of an expert.”
“Kiera?” You peel your gaze from Valarr to find your darling, your love, your sunlight, watching you with a dangerous smile. She relaxes back into the gilded armchair, one leg folded over the other, hands clasped and resting on her thigh.
“Do you want him to touch you?”
The question jolts through you, electric and dizzying. You look back to Valarr, who has not moved from the edge of the bed, still fully dressed and waiting. He looks like he would stand vigil there all night if Kiera asked him to.
“He wants to,” Kiera continues. “He has for a while now, although he was so torn up about it at first. He thought he was betraying me, and he thought you hated him. But you don’t hate him, do you, qelos?”
You shake your head, your tongue feeling too clumsy to explain yourself. You’re overwhelmed by the tidal wave of feeling that rises when you look at Valarr Targaryen.
“I didn’t think so.” When Kiera smirks, she makes sure you can always hear it in her voice, and it is on full display right now. “And why wouldn’t he want you? Look at you, hm? My Prince?”
Valarr’s voice is a song on the night breeze. “When you pinned me, that night in the gardens, your hands . . .” He trails off, head tilting to the side as he studies your hands now, splayed on the plush blankets as you prop yourself up.
“Do you want him to touch you, my love?”
The moment you nod, Valarr is already moving forwards – but pauses when Kiera hums, soft but resonant.
“Come around to this side,” she instructs, something warm simmering in her voice. “Undress her, but take your time. Start with her slippers.”
He obeys instantly, moving so quick that you hardly realize where he’s going until he’s on one knee before you, a hand braced on the edge of the mattress. It’s bare, his skin glowing in the candlelight, and rests no more than a few fingersbreadth from your knee. You stare at it, like some stranger’s hand has found its way so close to you, before you follow the path of his doublet all the way back to his face. Valarr is staring back, mouth pursed slightly in thought.
“May I?”
He nods to your feet, which swing a foot above the floor. This ridiculous bed and its ridiculous height. You look down to them, at the laces that keep your slippers secure.
“They untie at the ankle,” you croak, your mouth dry.
Valarr nods, and you hold your breath as his hands reach for your ankle, feeling around your heel for the small knot. Everything about this suddenly makes you hot with shame: the bow your slippers are tied with feels like a child’s whimsy, the lemon oil on your wrists smells cheap. You are no longer your own person, a woman who knows how to gut a man and recite poetry. You are a fool who is in way over her head.
When he’s removed them, Valarr takes each of your slippers and places them neatly on the floor, the toes lined up together. He brushes your knee with the back of his knuckles, looking up at you through his lashes.
“Don’t rush,” Kiera chides him. “If you think she’s so beautiful, make her feel like it.”
You keep perfectly still as Valarr holds your calf, nudging your leg up until he can press a long, careful kiss just below your knee. Your whole body shimmers with the contact, like your blood feels the dragonfire within his.
“Your Grace,” you whisper, and his hand slides up your calf and over your knee, his thumb stroking softly over your inner thigh.
“Valarr,” he says. When he looks up at you through his lashes, you feel his stare like a caress. “My name is Valarr.”
“You don’t need to do this just because . . .”
“Because you’ve bewitched me?” His lips brush your thigh, and you sigh, your head tipping back. “Because you are maddening in your courage, in your fierceness?”
“Valarr,” you breathe, and the taste of his name is honey on your tongue.
“Kiss her again.” Kiera’s voice comes out quiet, breathy. “Please, my love, kiss her again.”
Valarr rises between your thighs, his hands moving to your hips, and does just that. It’s deeper this time, and you let him coax your mouth open, gasping into his as he tugs you closer.
“You’ve reduced me to a man who wants,” he murmurs against your neck. “I want you. I want Kiera. I want you both. I want you to kiss me and go to the gardens with me and come into our bed – I’ve dreamt of you since Goldengrove.”
“Why would –” You gasp, your hands bracing on his shoulders as he dips to kiss your throat, your chest, your stomach. His hair tickles your chest and you sigh, your hand moving to thread your fingers through it. “I am no lady, I tried to kill you –”
“No, you didn’t,” he laughs against your stomach. “Or do you mean to tell me you would’ve slit my throat?”
“If I had to,” you try, and Valarr seizes your mouth in another kiss.
“You only wanted to keep her safe,” he whispers. “You don’t have to do it alone anymore. I want to help you.”
“You want to fuck me,” you say, and Valarr’s hand moves to cradle your jaw, keeping your eyes on him.
He’s so beautiful. You’ve tried not to think it, but the firelight turns his face regal in the way of old ruins. You think he could’ve walked right out of a song, a knight with magic teeming in his eyes, enchanting in his softness.
“I want to care for you.” He brings your hand to his face, puts your palm on his cheek, and turns his head to kiss it. “I want to care for you the way Kiera has.”
“Kiera –”
She moves at the distress in your cry, and suddenly Kiera’s behind you on the bed, her arms wrapped around your shoulders, her cheek smushed to the top of your head. The pair of them hold you, cradling you.
“Kiera,” you whisper. “I’m not supposed to – this isn’t for me.”
“Qeloi, my darling,” she replies. “Everything in the world is for you. Just say the word.”
You wet your lips, tilting your head back. Whether you are offering your mouth to Kiera or your throat to Valarr, even you aren’t sure anymore.
“Please,” you say, and Kiera guides you back against her, your head resting on her chest.
“You heard her,” she teases Valarr. “Give her the world.”
When Valarr’s mouth brushes your pelvis, you shiver, and he smiles against the skin.
“Her smallclothes are knotted at the side,” Kiera says idly, running her fingers along the side of your throat and sending warmth flooding through you. “Don’t rip them.”
“That was one time,” Valarr mutters, and Kiera reaches over to pinch his chin between her fingers.
“And you won’t do it to hers,” she says, low and simmering, and Valarr nods. His eyes are glassy as he looks up at his wife, and they flutter shut as he lowers his face back to your inner thigh. His fingers are quick with your smallclothes, and the breeze is cool against your bare skin.
“I knew you’d taste good,” he says, almost to himself, before his tongue laves over your cunt.
You remember the first time Kiera insisted on gifting you the same treatment you gave her, waiting until the middle of the night to kneel between your legs. Valarr moves with less certainty than her, but absolute desperation: he kisses and licks with reckless abandon, clumsy but torrential in his minstrations. You gasp, hands flying to his hair, and Kiera kisses your jaw.
“I knew you’d love her,” she laughs. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Valarr doesn’t respond, only leans deeper into you, and your body feels loose, airy, like you’ve fallen apart and Valarr’s tongue is holding you together. You clutch at Kiera’s hand as he continues, relentless.
“On our wedding night, he spent two full hours between my thighs,” Kiera murmurs in your ear. “I want to see how long he can spend between yours. He can beat that record, I’m sure.”
“Valarr,” you choke out, your blood singing.
“Qeloi,” he whispers between kisses, before his tongue dips inside of you and his nose brushes your clit once, twice, thrice. The sound of Tyroshi, your language, dripping from his tongue is enough to overwhelm you.
You come undone between them, Kiera’s hands stroking your side and Valarr working you through the aftershocks of your climax. He looks up at you and his mouth and chin shine in the firelight.
“Kiera,” he says, rising to stand before you. His chest is heaving, and he slowly discards his robe. It hits the floor with a thud. “What’s the most times you’ve ever made her come?”
“Three,” she says from somewhere above you. “We were having a very good day.”
“Three,” Valarr repeats. He runs a palm along your hip, gentle as the breeze, before cupping his hand over your sex.
“I want you to give her four.”
You sigh, leaning back into Kiera’s arms, and look up at Valarr.
“I want you to give me four.”
He sighs through his nose, like he's reigning something in, and smiles just for you. "Then I will give you four, my lady."
You do not correct him as he leans forward to taste you again.
