#the fluffy chapter

[bitterbees4u]

Only the Best. Pt.2

Modern Valarr Targaryen x Sorta Lannister Reader

Summary: It's not exactly forbidden, but it certainly isn't supported. You and Valarr are not supposed to be beyond strained acquaintances and future political parties. Yet when a semester-long project forces that careful distance to close far too fast and far too seamlessly for your liking, it begins to shed light on secrets that could lead to scandal.

Warnings: Smut in this chapter. There is child abuse, manipulation, controlling behavior (not on Valarr or reader's end), mental instability, ED adjacent behaviors and routines but it's not the main focus of it, ASOIAF typical level of bad ig??? Idk, y'all know exactly what fandom this is for and it's not a field of sunshine and rainbows. Once again I don't write when I'm sober, and I don't post when I'm sober either. Not beta'd. POC reader as always. Ngl there's probably some Targaryen lore I got mixed up like who's cousin/aunt/uncle lol.

A/N: Hi guys, so this is probably going to have two more parts, the third one I've already written, the fourth part will act more as an epilogue if the third installment hasn't wrapped everything up. I actually might go back and edit some of the work too for once. Crazy ik, but I'm also not so crazy fucking depressed anymore. Your girl might be getting a mannnnnn which is def helping a little bit.

W/C: 20.8K

There is a gala tonight, and an important one hosted by the Baratheons. Valarr will be there, you think, as you get yourself ready. Because you are a Lannister you will be photographed, and worst of all, you will be with your family. It is getting colder now, late November with winter starting to show her hand. There is a dress on your body, and you hate it with a passion you have not felt in sometime. To put it simply, the dress is embarrassing. 

There is a sheet of color on your body, no sleeves, no shape, the hem comes above your knee and trails down to your shins, but what gets you is the feathers. There is a solid eight inches of feather after the dress stops. Perhaps if it were all black it would be somewhat acceptable, but it is instead pink and orange with black spots, and you hate it like you hate your diet. What possessed your mother to pick this out for you is beyond you, because you know it wasn’t your father, nor your brothers. Could it be because of a theme? 

You’re obviously not going to ask your mother, knowing she will lie to you, and if you ask any of your family they will ask her. There is, however, another option. Angie watches as you scramble over to your phone after you’ve just spent ten minutes staring at the dress with such contempt that she had started to become worried for the longevity of the item. Then she balks when you hiss at your phone like it has wronged you too, “Call Valarr Targaryen.”

She steps forward, “My Lady are you sure calling the prince is-”

“Hello?”

He sounds obviously confused, and oddly delighted at the same time but you are quick to the point, “Is Lyonel Baratheon hosting a Lisa Frank themed gala?”

For a moment there’s silence, until he coughs politely and goes, “Sorry, but what’s Lisa Frank?”

“Oh for the gods sake did you ever see the coloring books with the billion animals covered in glitter and beautiful sunset colors? The dolphins with rainbows and sunshine?”

On the other end Valarr is beginning to snicker, which is catching the attention of his family that waits for the festivities to begin, “Oh uhm, no I don’t believe so. Send me a picture?”

You snarl, a sound of pure frustration and contempt, but a minute later Valarr has three pictures sent to his phone, and that makes his eyebrows climb as he steps outside of the room. Putting you on speaker, “Okay, I got the pictures, and no, Lord Baratheon is not hosting a gala with this theme.”

“Was there a theme?”

“Vintage glamour I believe, I’m certain it’s why I’m wearing a suit that goes multiple generations back. Now what exactly has been selected for you to ask such a question?”

He’s greeted by a facetime request in the next moment, and then he’s being propped up. It is, technically, his first look into your private rooms, but all he can see is you backing up in your Lisa Frank gown monstrosity. Valarr instinctively bites into his lip to prevent himself from laughing, but there is something about the dress combined with your glower that is setting him off. You hold your arms up, doing a slow spin and truly, somehow, the back is even worse. 

There’s no helping him when he finally cracks, his laughter starts loud, but it soon turns wheezy and more silent as he heaves for air while you snatch your phone again, glaring at him, “Don’t laugh! Oh you are so rude.”

Valarr’s still laughing even through his words, motioning for you to turn around again, “Have you-Have you seen the back?”

“I am dressed like a little girl from 2006’s teenage fairy godmother, and you are laughing.”

“I’m so sorry, so sorry, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen something quite like that, who picked out that dress for you?”

“My mother! She picks out everything that I wear and I don’t know what brain-eating amoeba has been eating her prefrontal cortex but clearly they’ve been feasting. Oh I cannot believe she set me up for this.”

Valarr hums, his grin still present, “Just wear a different gown, surely you have something timeless in your closet.”

You’ve picked the phone up again, coming to your closet as you set him down to where he can see everything inside, “That’s the thing, I don’t have any gowns. I don’t get to do that, whatever I wear that’s for a gala gets dropped off before the event and by the next evening it’s gone. I’m not allowed any of my own jewelry, or shoes, or purses, or anything.”

Valarr’s grin is starting to fade as he hears the panic in your voice, the frustration of having nothing to your name despite your wealth. Not allowed anything of your own, which means you have no choice but to wear whatever your mother has approved for you. If you have none of these things then that means you will have no other option but to show up in the outfit you called him to complain about. It’s clearly meant to humiliate you, and then he thinks of all the other dresses that you’ve worn to a gala. 

None of which had stood out, but there was always something unflattering about them. People did talk about your outfits, how they didn’t seem to align with any of your other family members’ outfits, how it seemed your stylist had hits and misses. The media, he knew, tore you apart for this too. They spoke of your donations, your put together presence, and how you never looked like a Lannister. He’s beginning to think that may be intentional from your mothers’ end, as cruel as that may be. 

He steps away from the room, making his way to where he knows his father will be, “You don’t have anything?”

You’re raiding your closet on the other end, not even glancing up, “I don’t think so. Nothing that will suit a gala at least, unless I decide to wear a suit, but they’re not good enough for a gala.”

“What sizes are you?”

That makes you pause as you return to your phone, “Don’t.”

He pauses, blinking down at your face in the camera, “I will.”

“You’re going to cause a scandal.”

“I can manage that, and besides, it’s only a scandal if people make it one. I won’t brand you or anything, but there are plenty of dresses in my family’s wardrobe, and jewelry, and shoes. It will not bring us any trouble to lend you something, please, it will be a service to all of us if we do not have to witness that ghastly dress.”

He’s pleased by the twitch in your mouth, “My mother will know.”

“Good, let it be known to her that you will not always abide by her demands. Now send me your sizes so we can hurry.”

“Fine, I’m trusting your judgments.”

Then you hang up, and as he walks he gets a list of sizes from you. Then he calls for his four female cousins: Aelora, Daenora, Rhae, and finally Daella. The faster he can get this done, the easier it will be, and he trusts them to put together an outfit better than he can. Should he bring options? No, they’d probably stress you out more if you had to pick something out too. They meet him outside of the family clothing vaults, unimpressed and curious as he stands at the door. 

Rhae cocks her hip out, arms folded over her chest as she stares him down as if he’s a particularly disgusting mealworm, “So what have you brought us here for when we ought to be finishing getting ready?”

Valarr sighs, “I have a favor to ask of you all, and I’ll owe you four favors after this. But I need you to put together an outfit with these particular sizes for the gala tonight, and I need it done within fifteen minutes.”

Aelora snatches the phone out of his grasp, reading over the measurements before she passes it over to her sister, “We’ll get it done, but we need you to not say a word. Understood?”

“Got it.”

“And who’s the outfit for?”

“Will you promise to keep your mouths shut?”

They shift, and then Daella nods, “Fine.”

“Promise it with your hands visible.”

All four groan, but they do as told, promising not to say, and he grins, knowing that they’ll flip their heads over this, “Young Lady Lannister. Her mother picked a truly terrible outfit for her, and she has nothing to wear in replacement. I’ll try and get a picture of it later, but right now I need that outfit.”

Rhae glares at him, “Oh you asshole, you can’t just say we’re picking an outfit for Young Lady Lannister and send us on your way. We want those pictures.”

Then they’re taking off in different directions after a brief discussion of what to look for, and in fifteen minutes, after a madness he has never seen in his life, Valarr has a dress, a pair of shoes, and another armful of accessories in his arms. There’s also not that much time left, and so he’s forced to start running, his cousins close behind him as the walls blur away. He doesn’t even notice Aelora making a tik tok in the back, filming him as he sprints to get to his car. 

They leave him at the entrance, doubling over in fits of laughter and giggles as their brothers slowly come to join them. The running had caught attention, and they had only seen glimpses of Valarr with his cargo, the girls running, and Aelora’s phone held in the air. They stand at the entrance of the castle just as Valarr gets into the car, watching it speed away towards your apartment. 

Daeron glances at his younger sisters, bewildered, “Was that a pair of heels he was running with?”

Rhae snickers, “Oh yeah, and about 200,000 dollars worth of jewelry, and a dress that Aunt Rhaenys wore when she wanted revenge on her husband Corlys.”

Matarys scratches his head, wondering what’s gotten into his brothers’ mind over the past few months, “Has he been checked for a tumour?”

Daenora shrugs, “I don’t know, he probably should.”

Daella huffs, shaking her head, “He doesn’t have a tumour, he’s just falling in love with a woman, whose name we’re not allowed to say, but you’ll know who she is, it’ll be obvious.”

“What will be obvious?”

Everyone shrieks as they whirl around, and standing there is Baelor and Maekar, who had only caught the tail end of the conversation, but plenty of whispers from the staff. Word spread apparently as fast as Valarr ran. They had come to see the commotion, only to come upon their children staring at the ghost of a spectacle, talking about a woman it seemed. 

Daenora, head-strong of a woman as she will be, smiles sweetly at them, “Oh nothing, just that cousin Valarr has ran off with an entire outfit from our family closet for a woman.”

Baelor pauses, and then he looks at his brother, who merely lifts his brows, innocent, but he can feel the smugness, because for once it is not any of Maekar’s children who have caused a stir. It is Valarr, perfect son, perfect heir, running off with clothes for a mystery woman, “And do not worry, she will be in attendance tonight.”

Maekar pointedly looks away, and Baelor shuts his eyes, telling himself that Valarr has never gone and done something of the sort before. There is no telling who will show up wearing a Targaryen dress tonight, and Baelor can only hope she is a respectable member of society, that she will not be his child’s unraveling. He sighs, shrugging, “How bad can it be? Truly, although I have not heard anything of this woman he is apparently seeing?”

Aelora shook her head quickly, stepping forward, “Oh no uncle, they’re not dating yet, but he’s head over heels for her, trust me.”

Which explained why Valarr acted like a fool, running like he did, as if he was carrying a message during war. They did not know it, but Valarr had reached your apartment in record time, and you were impatiently waiting for him upstairs, you were cutting it far too close for your liking. He came up without any issue, and you greeted him at the entrance wearing nothing but a robe, having done away with the dress while you waited. 

“I had help picking the outfit out, so hopefully it’s to your tastes.”

You wave your hand, “No need, no need, thank you Valarr, you have no idea what you’ve saved me from.”

“All I require is one picture of the dress, not even you in it, just the front and back of it. It is my favor.”

He earns himself an eye-roll for that, but it satisfies him nonetheless, “Fine, and then I’m burning that damned dress. Or perhaps I will give it away, surely it is to someone’s tastes.”

“I wouldn’t go banking on that, now go, see if the dress will fit.”

You take the bundle easily, bounding up the stairs as Valarr debates getting back in his car and returning to his family, or if he should wait and arrive with you. That would, however, invoke all sorts of issues that he has no desire to deal with. Instead he will keep his mouth shut, and he will depart sooner than later. Only, time seems to have slipped away from him, or you’re just really fast at getting ready. But while he had torn himself up over waiting or not you had transformed yourself.

Your hair and makeup stayed the same, but your dress, jewelry, and shoes are completely different. There is a coat made from blood red lamé fabric decorated by various precious gems stitched to create a matching pattern over the billowing sleeves. There’s long red tassels at the bottom point of the sleeve, and then it comes to create a sharp V down to your navel, where it has been ruched and held together by a large black square. The skirt itself is long and column-like, the end trailing behind you and split from behind up to your lower thighs. You wear nothing underneath the top of it too, using fashion tape and the coat to lift and cover your breasts. Then there is the jewelry, long and dangly but ornate, necklaces drip from your neck and go down to your belly button, bangles cover your wrists as your ears are encrusted by gold and jewels, your fingers in a similar state. 

Rhaenys had the dress commissioned when she was fighting with her husband over her daughters’ first engagement, having worn it to a movie premier in 1927. Now you are wearing it to a gala, you even have her strands of pearls wrapped around your forehead, draping off your hair and tumbling down your back. You have a clutch in one hand, a fan in the other, and Valarr cannot speak. Not when you are wearing an item that is only described as iconic by the people, his cousins have chosen the best and the worst option for you. 

It is unmistakably a Targaryen dress, and that is where the issue lies, especially since it has not been seen since Rhaenys wore it to the movie premier. There is not one person at the gala who will not know what you are wearing, and Valarr said he would not brand you, but this feels like he is anyway. On the other side of things, you look beautiful in a way he had not imagined you to be before. Of course there is the knowledge that you are attractive, your features perfect in their harmony with each other. This is different though. 

Valarr knows it is something that he cannot come back from either. Not when his heart is thumping two beats faster than it had been before you came down the stairs. He feels like the guy picking up the girl for prom in a movie, when he’s so enamoured that he’s stuck in his words and movements. It’s like his mouth has dried, any words he wishes to say turning to ash before they get the chance to flee. You stand there at the base of your steps, uncertain of it all, “How do I look?”

An innocent question, and it is his opinion you find that matters the most out of anybody. Valarr wants to say that you look like a Targaryen, that you look like you belong by his side, walking down a red carpet together. He wants to tell you that you are the most damnably beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on, that you in this outfit will haunt him in ways he is not proud of. Instead he clears his throat and dips his head towards you, “You look perfect.”

You finish stepping down the stairs, and he comes to you quietly as you take a few tentative steps forward. Neither of you get too close though, he pauses, just close enough that he can take in the details of your face and the makeup you’ve applied to yourself. Your lips are darker, your eyeliner bolder, the bronze more prevalent than the blush. He wants to take your cheek into his hand, to tilt your head back so you’ll have to look at him, all so he can kiss you. 

The thought of kissing you is dizzying, how would it feel? He does not know, but he wants to, desperately. Valarr’s breath comes out shuddery, like he is waiting to jump and nervous, you do not miss it. Your eyes flick to his lips, and then to his eyes again, you know what he wants. But you do not give it to him, not yet, instead you speak, voice breathy and low, “Thank you.”

He refuses to break eye contact, intent on devoting every detail of your eyes to his mind. It takes all of his restraint to not reach out, to take you by the waist and pull you over to him, instead he nods and takes a step back, “Of course, if you are ever in need or-or want of dresses and jewelry, know I have plenty to spare.”

Valarr pauses, brow furrowing, “Not that they are in my personal collection or anything like that. I digress, I will see you at the gala? Yes?”

You nod, lips stretching wider as he turns on his heel, cheeks flaming, “I must go now.”

The door shuts behind him, and for a moment you stand there, looking at the shut door, and then you burst into a fit of laughter that echoes throughout your entire apartment. Valarr Targaryen, he will be fun to tease, if only your heart would calm itself down too. 

________________

As soon as you step from your car, the paparazzi practically explode. They recognize your face, and they know you’re wearing a dress that will be talked about anew. Your parents are inside already with your youngest three siblings, you doubt Gowan will show up, and Tybolt has to have arrived with his wife already. The lights are flashing more than they ever have in your life, and you strike your poses with practiced ease before you’re directed to Olenna Redwyne, sister to Loras. 

She is not someone you’re particularly excited to see, having gotten enough of her in high school. Olenna is but a few years older than you, but she has always been of a particular beauty that she lorded over anybody she deemed beneath her. Of course she never did it with you, not when you were addressed as Ms.Lannister wherever you went. Instead she had chosen to go the opposite way, attempting to big sister her way into your life with insults disguised as helpful tips. A little motivation, that’s what she said to you after she commented on how your thighs bulged from your socks. A little motivation to get legs like hers. 

Now she has a polite following of a few devoted million who know nothing of her truth. Featured on talk shows and invited to different pod-casts, you see her featured in different collabs all across social media. If there is one thing you can bring yourself to respect her by, it is that she has dared to step away from the conformity of everyone else around her. A Redwyne daughter is a prized daughter, one who would catch the attention of the likes of your brothers. 

For a moment, as you are coming towards her, you think of calling her your good-sister, having to make nice with her in the name of family. Having to deal with her no doubt incorrigible brats, especially depending on which brother she will pick. It relieves you that as far as you know, there is to be no such event to take place. Surely you would have heard if one of your brothers had gotten himself engaged. It helps, knowing she will not be permanently part of your life in such ways. You are as eased as you can be in a public setting, your face carefully relaxed but anybody can tell you are tense. 

This is nothing unexpected. There are all those stories of the good you do, and then there are the stories that you are abrasive, standoffish, that you are not one for mingling. Which you don’t deny, you are all of those wrapped up in silk, but they do not know that you are aware of what they say of you. Just because you rarely ever make appearances on social media doesn’t mean you aren’t kept up to date on everything going on around you. 

She dips her head politely, her body going with it as you simply nod your head towards her while she forces a smile into the camera, “In case none of you have guessed who this is, this is Young Lady Lannister, we went to high school together, didn’t we?”

Your smile turns sharp, fingers twitching around your fan as you grit out, somehow smooth and measured, “Indeed we did, it is a shame I have not been able to keep up with everything as you have, busy as I unfortunately am.”

Olenna hums, strained, “Of course, of course, you have many duties to attend to I am sure, especially with your ongoing studies, and although I would love to catch up with you later I must ask about the dress. Where did you get such an exquisite dress from?”

You stare right into her eyes as you draw yourself up a little more, because tonight you are something akin to untouchable. Perhaps it is Valarr, knowing he is flustered by you. But it doesn’t feel right, and then you think it is perhaps because you feel more present in your skin than you have in a long, long time, and you are beginning to remember what it used to feel like. There is strength in your steps that you had not carried before, your ribs are harder to feel beneath your fingertips. 

It feels less like you are shackled to the path laid before you, as if there has been a detour you were unaware of somewhere along the way. You’ve only just begun to realize it now though, now that you’re wearing something priceless, something worthy of royalty. She swallows, once, before you answer her, “I had a fashion emergency earlier, and it just so happened that my friend and peer at KLU, Valarr Targaryen, had a dress to spare.”

Then before she can ask you anything else, you reach out to squeeze her forearm, perhaps a bit too tight as you lean delightfully close to her, all in the show of old bonds never dying. She follows, knowing she can’t do a damn thing about it as you speak to her, “I must go now, but it was lovely seeing you again Olenna. Perhaps we will run into one another later.”

It feels like a threat, and for you and her, it is one. Not that her viewers would know any different, instead they speak of your subtle intensity, and how ethereal you looked in such an outfit. They do not know that Olenna is no longer actually “invited” to galas anymore. She does not grace the dance floor as she once had, and you know it will be a very, very long time and only if it never will happen again for her to dance once more. You wonder if she truly knows what she has traded herself for, a spectator when she once was part of the art. 

Some part of you feels bad about it, knowing that she will not thrive as she thinks she is right now for as long as she wants it. Olenna had taken the opportunity for fame, she had sacrificed plenty for it, that you can feel sorry for. But you remember her comments, her nails digging into your skin until you had crescent shaped scabs over your arms. You know she remembers you in high school, early into your assimilation with everyone, unsure and uneloquent, still struggling to suppress an accent you had let mould your tongue since birth. 

All thoughts of Olenna Redwyne are thrown out the door when you enter the ballroom. Lyonel, ever the glutton for a good party, certainly knows how to throw one. It is staged with different sections boasting different elements in a node to their designated era. There is nothing remotely glamorous about the whole thing, in fact it is downright raunchy, and yet it is perfect. You will not be the only one alone in the thought either, and it truly is grand, how Lyonel gets with his parties.

Downstairs is the swarm of people already mingling, and you are reminded of why Lyonel’s parties are your favorites. Disguised as galas when it’s an excuse to throw money around and get shit-faced, you had plenty of nights getting steadily, and unnoticeably more inebriated the longer the night went on. Tonight would be no different, you were sure of it, it didn’t matter that you are wearing a Targaryen dress and jewels, head to toe in a family’s history that is not yours. 

Although the people, tonight, are looking, and you are simply trying to find a place where you can safely vanish. If you can avoid your mother then tonight will have gone perfectly. Saved by Targaryens’ and their stupidly beautiful clothing, by Valarr of all people. You do not know why you reached for him first when you should’ve reached for Maelys, or Carissa, you should’ve reached for anybody but him. Yet in the moment, when your panic was beginning to peak, you had dialed his number, and he had responded. Had done more than respond. 

It was almost a shame that it is you who wears the dress, especially when you know you are going to be a wallflower as you always are. You can think of plenty of other ladies who would wear this better than you, who would walk with their perfect sways and the fabric swishing just right. For a moment you feel as if you are not who you are. Like you are a ghost operating a body that does not belong to you, sluggish and dazed, you feel like you are something and only something until you are nothing. 

This dress was worn by a princess, an almost queen, and you are the second person to don it over your skin and flesh. Jewels and beads, embroidery and needlework that are more tedious than anything, yet phenomenally cohesive together all across a single sheet of fabric. It feels like you are carrying part of her legacy with you, even though you are not a Targaryen. As if it has come to another point in the wheel of its lifespan, perhaps better than the last one. 

You make your way to Lyonel first, mostly because he is the host and it is only polite that you get it out of the way while he’s still clothed. The gala is loud inside, but not overtly so, and there is a fantastic array of costumes tonight. Old family relics that bore stories and secrets that would never be spoken aloud, not even by the one who made them. At some point you spot Maekar and Baelor, they orbit around each other, tempering, you think. 

Although you do not see Valarr, you are not discouraged, for a party at the Baratheon’s means you have every right to forget and have a night to yourself. It starts with two shots of tequila, mostly because that’s what will get you drunk the quickest, and you settle into a corner with an order for more later on. For now though you can sit and observe the people, and hopefully flee if your mother comes too close to you, for you have no doubt she will be livid. 

What you don’t expect is for Lyonel Baratheon to personally bring you the bottle of tequila, but it’s also not like you don’t know the man. Brenielle has taken you over to her place, and every now and then Lyonel is there too. This, however, is rarer. Usually Lyonel is in the center of the party, he’s on the tables and pouring champagne down his chest and licking it off his fingertips in front of important guests. That’s just who he is, and you doubt he’ll ever really change unless there’s something serious afoot. Your point is: Lyonel does not bring tequila to people personally unless there’s something exciting about them. 

Excitement and you are not to be put in the same sentence, which is why your skin crawls as he plops the bottle before you, his grin just shy of vicious as he takes a seat too, “So, lovely outfit you’ve got on tonight.”

You stare at him, snorting after a moment, “I’m borrowing the dress.”

“Oh I have no doubt it’s borrowed, but why?”

“Well if you must know the dress I had prior looked like something out of a little girls’ imagination, I was not about to wear that to a gala.”

“Do you have pictures?”

“Do you swear not to tell anybody that I just hated the dress and it wasn’t actually malfunctioning?”

“I do.”

You show him the pictures, quietly grateful that Valarr did take facetime photos of you in the dress in the height of your indignancy. Lyonel, expectantly, nearly falls off his chair laughing, because it truly is that bad. When he calms you are still calm and composed, but you’re into your third shot, going on your fourth. You need to pace yourself tonight, but you’re not, which isn’t the greatest idea. 

When he calms you are steady, but your face is warmer, and you are grinning more openly than you normally do, it’s more relaxed, not as forced. Lyonel is funny, you think, funny in the way that he tends to lighten people's feet, drawing them to dance and revelry in ways that other people cannot make them do. But he does have his rare moments where he is not all fun and games, and once his laughter dies down, the concern he had resurfaces. 

He eyes you for a moment, how you’re dressed in Targaryen jewels and cloth, looking every bit one of them. If Lyonel didn’t know who you are, that you’re a Lannister, he would’ve thought you to be another Targaryen woman. Not by blood, but by marriage, “Are you dating one of them now? One of those Targaryens?”

You cut him a glance, and it makes you wonder about Valarr, the almost kiss, the trips to little Yi Ti so you can get your fix of memory and food. He is good to you, better than most people have been, and he’s good at getting you to open your doors to him, for he knows you will never take your walls down. You aren’t dating him, but you think that maybe, just maybe, you could. 

“I’m not.”

“Yet.”

Lyonel gives you a look, there’s no teasing, just truth, and you do not deny it because you cannot. If things with Valarr continue as they are then yes, you will wind up as his girlfriend, and that doesn’t scare you like it would have three months ago. Instead that brings you a burst of unexpected pleasure, thinking of you and he as a unit instead of two singular beings. You would like it, if he was yours. 

“Who is it?”

You look at him again, and you don’t know if you should say it, if you should admit that there is something real between you and him and you just don’t know how to properly navigate it. There are aspects about you that will test him in ways that others are unwilling to be pressurized by. But he has gotten farther than anybody has ever willingly gone, you wonder if he will come to a point where he wants to turn back, you hope not. 

It is then, with absurdly perfect timing, that you see Valarr from across the room. He’s changed his clothes, no longer in the plain black suit with minimal embellishments, but something a bit bolder. The gold accents are heavier, there’s embroidery on the jacket and the pants, and he’s even wearing jewelry too. Earrings and rings, he catches your eye with an easy grin, and you cannot help the smile you return to him. Lyonel follows your gaze, then his head whips back to you, wide and with a hint of panic as he hisses out, “You chose the fucking crown prince?”

You decidedly take your fourth shot in response, chasing it down with a gulp of mango juice, your go-to chaser for tequila, “We’re project partners for a project in Globalization 4273.”

“Oh gods above there’s going to be a Lannister queen of the seven realms.”

“Maybe.”

Valarr, just to make everything worse, decides this is the time to come over to your table. You just sigh as he takes a seat beside you, glancing at the tequila, then to you, who just raises your brows at him, daring him to question your choices. He sighs, shaking his head before he tugs on the tassel of your dress, “Lord Baratheon, apologies for my intrusion, I merely wished to say how lovely your gala is tonight.”

Lyonel swallows, dipping his head, “Your Highness, thank you.”

“Of course, I hope you don’t mind my intrusion.”

“Not at all, the more the merrier, shall you have a drink?”

“Mm, perhaps one for now.”

You nudge the tequila towards him, “You can have a shot of this or you can get something else, it depends on how drunk you want to be tonight.”

Valarr takes the bottle, examining it before he sets it down and stares at you for a moment, “How drunk do you intend to be tonight?”

“Drunk enough to where my mothers’ ire is just an annoyance.”

Lyonel leans forward, “Oh? Are we hiding from mama’s tonight?”

You snort, examining the crystal shot glass you’ve been using, “I don’t know about you Lyonel, but I am always hiding from my mother.”

Valarr, who has a dead mother, does not contribute to that particular branch of conversation, but he does sit a fraction closer to you, “Well then, I shall simply stay with you, perhaps it will ward her away.”

“Mm, I think I would enjoy that.”

Lyonel, with growing horror, looks between the both of you, because neither of you are even attempting to be subtle. If he was someone else then he might’ve had an aneurysm trying to decipher the interaction. As it is, he’s only just confirmed that Valarr is besotted by you, and you are warming up to the idea of being with him. A slow process, but steady, and inevitable. Yes, he decides, inevitable. You are inevitable, just as the night will end, just as Valarr will be king someday. 

Just how Baelor will be king sooner than later with Daeron II on his deathbed. Nobody speaks of it, but everyone knows that he will die before mid-year arrives after this one ends. Those topics do not belong at a party though, so Lyonel does not dwell too deeply on it, instead he clears his throat and stands with a broad smile directed at you, “Well I must say it has been lovely, tell my dear sister that she ought to let loose tonight, yes? Enjoy the party, please.”

You watch as he vanishes into the crowd, leaving you and Valarr alone together as you eye his suit, “I like this one better than the other one.”

He grins, “I do too, it belonged to my ancestor Daemon Targaryen. He wielded a sword of Valyrian steel named Dark Sister, we still have that sword.”

“You should’ve worn the sword to go with it.”

“I could’ve, but only if I wanted my father to chase me around the party in an attempt to remove it off of me and smack me upside the head with it.”

The alcohol is starting to work into your system, making it easier to laugh. You can feel the fuzziness tinting the edges of your awareness, an inebriation you don’t usually crave but thoroughly enjoy when it occurs. Valarr doesn’t know how much you’ve taken, and you don’t exactly want to tell him either. It feels a little shameful, being four shots of tequila deep into a party you’ve spent less than an hour at. Yet you cannot bring yourself to care either. 

He comes closer, unabashedly this time, knowing that you and he are hidden in this particular section, he gets why you’ve chosen to nest yourself over here. Then he thinks of walking around the room with you, knowing you and he can publicly be friends since you declared it on live television for all to see. He supposes it’s his fault that all the secrecy you and he have practiced has gone out the window, there was no other way for you to address the questions surrounding your dress tonight. 

Yet it elates him, knowing that you and he can go around campus together now, that you and he can grab coffee whenever, go to cafes and sit in the library. There will be hell to pay with your family, you more than he, but it is worth it, in his opinion. It means he can begin to court you, only if you’re willing, but he’s ninety percent sure you’re willing. He’ll have to ask later, or maybe tonight, not right now, but he could ask you right now. There’s too many options, and so he takes a shot in an effort to calm himself. 

You watch him with the calmness of a cat who is being slightly judgy, waiting to see what else he will do. Valarr, if there is one thing about him, is that he does not do shots, he barely even parties. It burns going down, and his eyes water when he starts to cough, but you hand him a thing of juice, and that helps. When it is over his cheeks are red, and he’s left questioning why you have a bottle of it in front of you. Who would ever willingly drink this sort of thing? 

Valarr stares at it as if it has greatly offended him, “That is vile, why have you chosen such a drink when there’s a variety of cocktails at the bar?”

He watches as you cackle, reaching for your shot glass as you pour yourself another one, “Because I know how to take shots, and I know this will get me drunk quicker than most of the cocktails over there. It’s fast, efficient, and I don’t have to deal with inedible garnishes. Besides, I’d have to keep getting up to order them, and the idea of potentially running into people I have to talk to is unappealing at best.”

“But you’d have a far more enjoyable taste experience because that is nauseating, and it burns.”

“If you are that pressed about shots of tequila versus a cocktail go get a cocktail then, you know where I am.”

He glowers, but you don’t back down, even if you are regretting that fifth shot. No more for a while you decide, or else you’ll find yourself in a spot of trouble that you aren’t willing to deal with. Not when you’re wearing this dress, or these jewels. You also suppose that since you’re wearing such an outfit you cannot be a wallflower for the entirety of the night, but you aren’t about to get up and head to the dance floor either. 

“I’ll be fine.”

“If you insist.”

Valarr groans, but he does not leave, instead he turns his attention to the crowd, to the people that wander about in their lavish clothing and alcohol induced steps. Most galas are not like Lyonel’s, they are sophisticated affairs at the beginning, full of speeches and charity donations. Parties with Lyonel are ones that get people drunk, and keep people drunk, which makes it so that when they write their checks for donations they are loose with their money and eager to impress. He is smart for that, and everyone else is stupid to call him a simple man who only craves the feeling of flesh and the allure of alcohol. 

You lean closer to him, your lips nearly brushing his ear as you murmur, “I see a lord who is attempting to cheat on his wife with an already married woman.”

Valarr searches the room, but he does not see what you have found, “Who?”

The giggle you let out sends shivers down his spine, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, “Lord Blacktyde, look at how he’s leaning down to Lady Harlow, he’s encroaching on her space with how he leans in, hand on the back of her chair, other hand on the table, he means to corner her. With how far away she’s leaning it’s safe to say she isn’t into him, not that I blame her. Lord Blacktyde is an unfortunate man with an even more unfortunate temper.”

“Where is his wife and where is her husband?”

This part makes you smirk, because you know exactly where they are, “If you go down the hall there’s a bathroom, I bet you right now that it’s locked, and Lord Harlow has Lady Blacktyde bent over a sink right now. Lord Blacktyde knows of his wife’s infidelity, he knows who her affair partner is, but Lady Harlow doesn’t know. The only reason Lord Blacktyde is trying so hard with her is because he wants revenge on his wife.”

Valarr watches them for a moment longer, and then he looks at you, “How do you know all of this?”

You shrug, “Perks of being a wallflower I suppose, I see everything that nobody else does. It makes for some fantastic blackmail, not that I would use it.”

“What else do you see?”

“Well, if you look at your three o’clock you see Young Lady Foxglove, she’s hiding a pregnancy with Lord Manwoody.”

For a while you point out the various happenings of lords and ladies around the room, and when you point out your step-father, you abruptly falter. He is there with your mother on his arm, and you can tell she is searching for you, that she is angry. Valarr sees the moment your playfulness dies on your tongue, your focus zeroing in on your mother and your two brothers that flank the two of them. The three siblings she has given you via your step-father are nowhere to be seen, left behind due to being too young. 

Valarr, who has taken three more shots since he settled at your table, is emboldened, but he’s not drunk enough to miss the fear that seems to explode within you. He reaches, hand on your knee with a squeeze as he leans to your ear this time, “Do you wish to dance now?”

Dancing will take you away from them, and it will throw you into the fray of things, but it will save you from your parents. Not once have you ever wished to dance with somebody at a ball, but now it is all you desire. You take his offered hand, nodding as you stand, “Yes, although I cannot guarantee that I will be any good to you as a dance partner.”

“That’s alright, everyone’s too drunk to notice if anybody’s dancing badly.”

“Yes but there will be videos, I guarantee you.”

“Who cares?” And you know there are people who will care, plenty of people, but you can’t bring yourself to be one of them. Not when your hand is still in his, and he is skirting around your family, shielding you from them as you and he take to the stairs that lead up to the main event room. It is hotter here, crowded and the stench of alcohol is so strong it masks the scent of guilt. There are younger people here, lords and ladies closer in age to you and Valarr, they’re drunk and excited, their outfits already askew in the wake of their partying. 

The dance floor is where you and he are headed though. Here the music is loud, and it -per theme- is never on one particular decade or era. It changes every time, and you relish the sound of your species’ history. For a moment you are starstruck by the sight before you. Lords and Ladies in their finest pieces that ought to belong to a museum dancing, drinking, smoking. It looks like the picture of grandeur and wealth. It looks like something you desperately want a taste of. 

Valarr tugs at your hand, beckoning you to the crowd, and you’re so grateful that the skirt has a slit in it, you could not imagine trying to dance in such a thing otherwise. The music, a hit from the sixties, starts to die down as you and he find a space for yourselves in the throngs of people and bedazzlement. Here, in this crowd of people who are focused on their music and dancing, with themselves and their partners, do not care who walks behind them or beside them. 

There are too many people to be distant, so you and he are pressed closer together. His hand finds your waist as one pair of hands combine, your free hand rests on his shoulder, and then the music starts again. For a while you and he are lost in the push and pull of dancing, forgetting everything else, and only broken out of the reverie when you hear the beginnings of a faster jazz song begins, one distinctly from the roaring 20s. 

You can only laugh when Valarr pulls you into the fastest, most dramatic waltz you’ve ever partaken in. He moves you across the floor like you are a tornado rather than a person, and miraculously, the people move. For the most part they keep on as they are, but a few people stop to watch the flurry of movement you and he partake in. Vaguely, you see the cameras flashing in the corners of your eyes, but for the most part you don’t care. You’re drunk and you’re dancing with Valarr Targaryen of all people in the prettiest dress you’ve ever had the honor of wearing. 

When he dips you it’s low enough that your hand and hair brushes against the floor, and then you’re being brought up again, giggling as you cling to him, dancing back into the crowd again. It is electric, you think, dancing in such a way that your mother would never approve of. You feel wild, and like you cannot ever be touched again, that in this moment everything is perfect and therefore you are perfect. Valarr’s eyes never leave your face, although they are lidded with intoxication, all he can focus on is you and how you toss your head back when you properly laugh. He may be drunk, but he doubts that he will ever forget how you look in this moment, when you are truly at peace. 

Even if it is in a room where everything is too sweaty, too dizzying, too many people. It is everything you are branded not to like, and yet you love it. The music and the laughter, the dancing reminds you of parties from your homeland, where adults and teenagers danced and sang, ate and drank and children ran around with each other. You remembered learning some of the basic dances with sisters and girlfriends while your brothers and the other boys learned their movements. 

It was always loud, always chaotic in a way that never failed to make you borderline hysterical with your revelry. To you it was something felt in your soul, a sense of profoundness that could never be replicated. Even now it is not the same, but it is the closest you have gotten to it in Westeros. You lose track of time when you are with him, even after the alcohol has been burnt from your system and you are as sober as the night will allow you to be. 

When you can take no more Valarr whisks you away to the opposite side of the room, away to the second floor balcony that overlooks everything else. There’s a second bar here, and Valarr orders two wine glasses and a small pitcher of some pink drink that looks like a future headache. You don’t care though, not when you’re looking down to everyone beneath you. The dancers and the watchers, the older people gossiping and the photographers walking around. 

One such photographer is behind you, and unbeknownst to you has gotten his shot of a century with you as the model. He calls your name, and as you turn to see who has called for you the camera flashes. It blinds you momentarily, but you aren’t bothered, instead you offer a smile, a genuine one, because you are happy here. Valarr approaches, two glasses in one hand, the pitcher in another, you reach your arm for him, “Take a picture with me.”

There’s an attendant trailing him, thankfully, and Valarr wastes no time to drop the contents off to him before he comes to you. It is like puzzle pieces coming together, and you do blame the alcohol for the way you lean into him like it is natural to do so. He’s somewhat behind you, his shoulder against your head as his arm comes around your waist, resting on your hip like it has always belonged there. Your arms come to position, and you think of how domestic this looks, how damning it is when he leans down to kiss your cheek. 

It’s stupid, you think, how pleased you are by him, how drunkenly besotted you are with Valarr. Who beckons the photographer closer, allowing him to get some close-ups of you both individually and together, and when it is over Valarr tugs him closer, “You have our permission to post everything except for the kiss, that is to be sent to me personally. Understood?”

He nods, the pictures he has a small trade for a singular photo, “Of course, are there any others I should send to you personally sir?”

“Any pictures that look like the kind that belongs to an engagement.”

“Of course, thank you sir, and thank you my lady.”

You dip your head towards him, “Of course, I look forward to the pictures.”

As you leave you lean up a little so he can hear you better, “And you better forward me those pictures too.”

Valarr grins, “I’ll share the album with you.”

The attendant trails behind you both, drink and cups in hand as Valarr takes you elsewhere. He comes to a covered balcony that oversees the city, a good chunk of it too. There’s not many stars in King’s Landing, but from where the Baratheon mansion sits there are more than in the city center. There’s a small white couch and dark furniture for outside seating, and it doesn’t take long for you and Valarr to find your seats on the couch. 

Not once have you two parted from each other, and you get the sense that this is too fast, too much, but at the same exact time you want it. Even if it’s taken you a while to recognize the sensation of falling for somebody, and knowing you are not even fully there yet, you find that you want to be. You do not love Valarr, but you can, and you will if this continues on its trajectory. Even if there is apprehension about the potential union between you and he, of course there is. 

Neither of your families are particularly friendly with each other, the constant push and pull of number one and number two often causing friction. You have no guarantee of this being your salvation, for it could very well be your ruin, and yet so be it. If Valarr is the thing that makes this life unravel for you, then you’ll make good on your teenage dream of running away back to your home country, never to be seen in Westeros again. But here and now you want him as yours, and you find yourself hoping to be his. 

You have no idea how the realm will react to a union between the both of you. What will become of your character, and how you will navigate everything with your family. There is no doubt that your mother will be displeased, but everyone else you have no concrete projection for. Your brothers may be mildly pleased, mostly because it would tie them closer to the crown. Your step-father would be similarly pleased you think, and your younger siblings could probably care less. Just your mother, your mother who hates and loves you with a balance that has been lost to time, fame, and money. 

“Taste this. You might like it, and don’t down it like a shot.”

Valarr holds the pink drink out to you, and sure enough there is edible glitter in the liquid. You take it with a roll of your eyes, making sure to lock eyes with him as you take a dainty sip. He rolls his eyes, but you ignore that as the taste comes over your tongue. Sweet, strawberry and lime and something distinctly coconut. It’s the exact kind of drink you’d enjoy deep into the summer. Now that it’s close to winter time you aren’t sure of his choices, but you’re also sitting in a dress worth close to five-hundred thousand dollars courtesy of the crown prince sitting with you. 

“It’s good, summery. I didn’t think you’d want something so tropical in November.”

He shrugs, “I don’t, but you like the tropical fruits and flavors, and I’ve always liked daiquiris.”

“I do too, can do anything with them. What else would you drink? If you weren’t keeping me in mind.”

Valarr pauses, and you are content to sip on the daiquiri while he thinks it over, “I think I really like French 75s. They’re good and simple.”

“Hmm, I don’t know if I’ve had one of those.”

“Next time.”

“Sure.”

You both lapse into silence again, but it isn’t bad, it’s steady, comfortable, and you are happy where you are. It is quieter here, where there is nobody but you and he and thick walls to drown the noise out. Nobody is looking at either of you, and it is comforting to know that it is truly just you and he once again. There will be consequences to face later, of you and he dancing like you two had, but neither of you care, at least not right now. Not when you are pressed next to him, the warmth of your bodies leeching off one another. 

The project you and he have been working on is complete, done far earlier than anybody else, already revised, already perfect. Neither of you are required to show up for the workday part of class, seeing how it would be a waste of both your time. You think of coming to his, or he coming to yours. Then you think of your home, how much you hate the beige and modernity, how you’ve wanted to change it for forever. However, you know damn well that your mother would never agree to renovating it, at least not in your tastes. 

Valarr shakes you a little bit, making you glance at him, “Hmm?”

“You went away for a second, what were you thinking about?”

You huff, swishing your glass so you can watch the glitter swirl around, “How much I hate that apartment, I want to renovate it, make it mine, but Mama would never agree to it. So I was brainstorming ways to do it right under her nose.”

“Is the apartment in your name?”

“Mhm, it is.”

“Why don’t you sell it then? You can sell it and get that money for a different apartment, and then you can renovate that one to your liking.”

“True, and if I pay in cash she won’t be able to look through my spending history and see where it’s gone to.”

“Would she really look through it?”

“She looks through everything in my life, truly.”

He shuffles a bit so he can see you better, and you face him unabashedly, it is the truth, and you think you’re finally willing to tell it to someone. You think it is because out of anybody who has wormed their way closer to you, Valarr is the one who understands the most about being restricted despite being the definition of free to do as one pleases. Your friends know pressure and expectation, they know they are meant to act in a certain way. But the difference is that they have choice and you are so incredibly jealous of them sometimes that you cannot stand them. 

“What do you mean by everything?”

You furrow your brow, letting your eyes shut as you think of how to explain it to him, this thing you and your mother have. How neither of you can let each other go, sinking poison coated claws into each others’ chests, waiting to see who will get to whose heart first. At the same time it is clinging, it is a lifeline of familiarity and instinctual love that is bound in so many memories of you and her versus everything that it cannot be unwoven. Sometimes you think that without your mother you’d fall apart, and the bigger piece of you thinks that if she stays like this, continues to treat you as she has been and is now; that she will kill you. 

“My mother is a woman who has been through a lot, and everything she has done is just as much for me as it was for her. At least until she found stability, and then I don’t really know what it was, or what happened, but she just. She sort of lost it, a little bit, with me.”

Valarr is looking at you but you can’t look at him, instead you’re focusing on the rings he’s dressed you in. Silver and gold, rubies and diamonds and black opals alike, some older than the Targaryen’s have been the ruling family of Westeros. They are rich in their history, their culture, and yet you see so little of it on them. At least in modern day they are lacking, for just a century ago they were not. It reminds you of what you used to wear, the clothes that adorned you and the legacy you carried with it. Westeros stripped that from you. 

He keeps you close, his arm around your shoulder as his thumb strokes along your shoulder, listening as you try not to stumble over your words. Valarr has known for a while that there is something amiss with you, your mother, your family. It is the little comments, the restrictive food intake, how you seem to grasp blindly at opportunities like they might flee from you. Opportunities like taking lunch in Little Yi Ti, drinking in the corner where you can’t be seen, sleeping on couches that aren’t your own. He sees the way you open yourself in private and draw yourself up as if you will be berated if you don’t. There’s nothing personal about your public appearance, and you clearly dislike just about every aspect of your life. 

“What does she do?”

You risk a glance at him before returning to the rings, “She decides every aspect of my life, from how I decorate my apartment to what food I eat. The streets I take are decided for me, my destinations are pre-set, she has pictures taken just so it shows that I’m not too odd, too out of place, but just right. And it’s just…I think it would be different if I came to Westeros willingly.”

Valarr stills, and then he pushes up against you, forcing you to sit up as you curse yourself for saying too much. It is the truth you were not yet ready to face and it is too much, too raw for you to handle as you have dealt with everything else. You have tried, over and over and over again with varying degrees of success to forget the circumstances that led you here. What pushed your mother away from everything, why you were the one taken. 

“You did not want to leave your country.”

Guilt and nausea eat at you, forcing the alcohol to crawl up your throat unpleasantly, but you don’t puke, not yet at least. Not even when Valarr’s hands squeeze yours, and you have to swallow the urge to cry, “Far from it.”

But he doesn’t know the fine details, he doesn’t know every piece of you, and tonight you cannot give it all away to him. It is enough that you have admitted that to him, knowing that he will pick away the truth until he gets to the memory of it. Of you, of your departure and your year spent with no place to call home, not really. The year your mother exposed you to things that you shouldn’t have seen, the year that you learned how to be her daughter. 

“I must believe that one day I will come back home, that I will tie my ends up neatly. That the people I left behind will get the answers they deserve to know.”

Like your father, your brothers, your sisters, your grandparents, all of them. There is no other choice but to believe that they will be where you left them, that although the years have passed they are still standing, waiting for you. But then you think that if you are this tired of waiting to return, they are sick with it. You are tempted to look their names up, but you know your mother would flag you for it in an instant. 

“Your mother just…took you?”

It is like he can’t fathom it, can’t picture Lady Lannister taking you kicking and screaming through countries. Clearly whatever you had been taken from was important enough to leave you in a rather desolate state, and it was no wonder your mother had taken advantage of your state to decide everything for you. Valarr does not know what was left behind, does not know the significance, but he does know that if he can get you to where you need to be then he can make that work for you. Not just because you are his intended, but because it is so horrifying to him that he thinks he’d do it for anybody in a situation like yours. 

Valarr thinks of his own history and legacy, the Targaryens from Old Valyria. Dragon riders and leaders of powers that most of the world could not understand. There is little left of his culture, of his history, most of it burnt or stolen away, crucial pieces forgotten and laid to rest with ashes to the wind. He does not admit it, but there are times where he does not feel Valyrian, or like a true Targaryen. 

He has one purple eye to show for his ancestry and a streak of silver in his hair to top it all off. There is power to his surname, wealth to his dynasty, he knows that his future is stable in a way few others are gifted with. But he does not dress as his great-grandparents did, he does not know the tongue of his ancestors as seamlessly as he ought to despite his standing. Valarr wears his family colors and symbol proudly, but there are often times where he wonders if it is deserved. 

You had that culture though, the tongue, the appearance, the spirit. This is your personal doom of Valyria, living in Westeros amongst the nobility. Abruptly, horribly, Valarr feels selfish for wanting you as he does. If he courts you, marries you, makes you the mother of his children, you will forever be tied to this place, to these people. You will never be able to live in your country full time again, at least not for more than a few years. Valarr isn’t willing to take that from you. 

There will be a girl he will marry eventually, even if he does not know her name. He wants you though, he wants you and your secrets. He wants you and the way you dance when you are drunk, he wants your laughter against his throat, your hands on his body. The warmth you give him is greater than any dragon’s fire, making him lax and easy, as if the world can finally rest. Valarr knows, he knows like he knows he will be king one day, that you are the woman he will love like nobody else, and he will never be able to feel like he feels now with anybody else. 

It would not matter if he lives fifty years with the mystery girl, if he learns every quirk of hers and memorizes the shape of her collarbone in the moonlight like he has to yours. She will not be you, and true it is only a handful of months into knowing you, he knows that it will be you or nothing at all. Even if he does marry someone else. But he also knows that if he does win your hand he would do everything he could to make you happy, if it meant seeing you for a month so you could be in your home then so be it, the month with you is worth it. 

He does not ask you to be his, not when he wants to, not when you look at a place he cannot see as you look at his face. You do not tell him that your soul is there, but your heart is here, not when he looks at you’re already gone. 

_________________

The project is presented, eventually, but during the downtime Valarr mopes, and you are handed the lecture of a lifetime from your parents. You’re still not allowed to go on any outings, and you’ve lost access to your cards. The resentment builds in you, making you curse Valarr quietly as you think of the best night of your life, how it caged you in even more than ever before. But you are thankful too, for you felt alive for the first time in a while, and it was so nice you cried yourself to sleep that night. 

Valarr avoids you, and you know it, but you do not comment on it, you do not text him. He, on the other hand, holes himself up and stares out the window, your gala dress in his closet, cleaned of course, and smelling of you. Matarys leaves him be, but he comes by occasionally to silently judge before turning around. Valarr knows this is stupid, knows this is more unfair to you than anybody else for it is you who suffers the most out of this. 

There is snow outside now, and there are no classes to be had for at least another two weeks. Valarr knows, he knows he should go to you, to apologize and take you to get your favorite soup, to tell you how he is in too deep to back away. How unforgivably sorry he is for making you pick for him, because he is too much of a fool to decide what is clearly best. That is a weight he does not dare shoulder to you, knowing that you are constantly at your breaking point already. 

He misses his mother, who has not been departed from him for more than five years. She would know what to say, how to handle such a situation. If she were here she would’ve ran her fingers through his hair and whispered that everything would be alright, that she would help figure out a way to make this work. Valarr does not know how to work that sort of magic, and truthfully, neither does his father. That is not to say Baelor is a bad man, he is far from it. 

Only that there is more on the mans’ plate than Valarr’s romance issues. He will not bother his father with such things, and beyond that, he is creeping upon twenty-one, these issues are his own and his alone. The question weighs on him, and he knows he must make a decision soon, and then he must also help you escape your mother, and really, that will not be so difficult. He’ll see you walk across the stage first, allowing him to be selfish for another few months, awful as it is. 

On the fourth evening of his self-imposed isolation Baelor comes to visit him, he sits without asking for permission. Valarr does not move away from him, nor does he tell his father to leave. Baelor, however, will count that as a win, and for a moment he allows silence until he sighs and leans forward a little, “Valarr.”

Valarr glances at him, and then his eyes flick back to the snow outside, it blankets the city beautifully, and he can’t help but wonder if you hate or love the snow, “Father.”

Baelor sighs, reaching forward to tug on Valarr’s sleeve, “Look at me, c’mon.”

Valarr does not want to, because if he does then Baelor is going to see the turmoil, he’s going to know that he has fucked all sorts of things up. That he’s ruined a piece of him for forever, all for you and because of you. He does it anyway, although he’s reluctant, and he doesn’t quite raise his head either. Baelor knows it’s not going to get better than that either, and so he raises a brow, “Are you going to give even a hint at what upsets you so? Or am I going to have to bring out a list and start checking off possibilities?”

Baelor leans back, satisfied as Valarr offers him a short glare, lips pursing in a way that is certainly not a pout, and that is only quick lived as he grows saddened again, “There is a woman, and there will be another one like her, but she does not belong to me, she does not belong to anybody.”

“You are far too cryptic sometimes, is this about Young Lady Lannister?”

“Father.”

“Yes or no Valarr, it is simple.”

“Fine, yes, it is about her.”

Baelor is tempted to throw his hands in the air, but he does not. The photos have not been released, but he saw with his own two eyes how Valarr danced with you that night at the gala. He didn’t say anything at the time, not to you or his son, about how you both looked right at home with each other, and how it has been far too long since he has seen his child laugh like one. Of course something nobody knew went down behind the scenes, something none of them saw, but people speculated because of course they did. Although it was blissfully kept quiet. 

“Why do you say you cannot have her then? She seemed more than pleased with you at the gala.”

“Because she is not Westerosi.”

Baelor’s eyebrows climb higher, “Is her…ethnicity, an issue.”

Valarr squints at him, confusion and anger bleeding into one, “I’m not racist, she’s from a literal different country from Westeros. She wants to go back as soon as she is allowed to leave. I doubt she will return.”

He slumps, muttering about how ethnicity is not the issue while Baelor processes the information his son has just dumped on him. You’re not Westerosi, and you will likely not stay, “Well, that is certainly news, and you say you are in love with her?”

For a while Valarr does not answer. All he can think about is how he knows with a certainty he has not felt since he knew his mother was not going to survive that you are the one for him. He had never thought it true how people said that once they knew they were the one, they knew. But he knows now, has known since the moment you passed out on his couch the first time even if he didn’t know what to label the sensation as. 

“I do love her, and I know that even if she moves away, I will bear it, but it will be a toleration. I respect her too much to chain her here, I will not be the reason she continues to wither away. I will not keep her here where her mother can reach her so easily. And I will respect but never love whomever I wed in the future. For I will not shirk my duty in furthering our line and taking a wife.”

“Her mother?”

“Needs to go to jail.”

“Excuse me?”

Valarr frowns, his glare hardening, and Baelor is glad that his son has looked away from him with a look like that, “An awful woman, it is not my right to share everything that I have been told, but she needs to have a restraining order.”

His father nods slowly, trying desperately to play it cool, and he cannot imagine Maekar in a situation like this. Then he pleads to the gods in the next instant, and rather desperately, for them to never give his little brother a situation like this, because then Baelor will be dealing with that particular crash out. He does not ever want to deal with something like that in his lifetime. 

He wonders what exactly he has done to earn such a trial though, why his son has picked perhaps one of the trickiest romances in history. Valarr does not lie, and Baelor knows better than to say he’s being dramatic, not when he can hear the truth in wavering yet hard words. A mother who should not have her child, a rich girl far from home and apparently so homesick she’s wasting, and lastly, as if it cannot be worse. His son is so irrevocably in love with the woman that he will never fall for another, and has declared that he would suffer through a miserable marriage rather than keep her by his side. 

Baelor wishes, not for the first or last time, that Jena were here. So that he could go to their bedroom and lay beside her so he could release all his breath and ask her guess what Valarr told me today and she would ask for the kingdom keys? He misses her, the steady presence and knowing that she would back him, and balance him too. Jena would have been a lovely queen, and she would be adored, beyond that, she would know what to do. 

She would help him find the solution so their son would not be so defeated by his revelations. Baelor, like any parent, cannot stand to see their child distressed in such a way, and Valarr is despondent. It is not even an exaggeration, truly, there is no food eaten, no visitors taken, no activities partaken in and messages unanswered. You have not even done anything yet and already you have broken his heart, as quick as it may be. 

“You truly think she would not compromise with you?”

Valarr shrugs, “Even if she was I could not make her miserable on purpose. Father you do not see her, you do not see the way she lives or the rules that have been imposed upon her.”

“Boy you do know that she will be under your household if she marries into our family? That her mother will have no dominion unless you and her allow the woman to hold one?”

“That woman has had every decision about her made without her consent. From food to living space to hair to nail color to the street she walks on. All control and choice was stolen over the past few years, she has none of it, and no access to her own money, I was trying to think of ways I could somewhat smuggle her out.”

Baelor does pinch his nose, “Were you seriously going to smuggle the Young Lady Lannister out of the country? Really Valarr?”

Valarr groans, tossing his head back, “What else was I meant to do? It all has to be done under her mothers’ nose.”

For another long moment there is silence as Baelor tries not to think of how to knock sense into his son, his heir, who is so good and kind and perfect to him. Who is apparently stupid too whenever it comes to you, and Baelor is perhaps a little stupid when it comes to making his family happy, and it also sounds like you could use the support.

“Marry her now then.”

Valarr chokes on his spit, coughing raucously as he reaches for his water, nearly spilling it before he gulps it down, still coughing as he stares at his father, who is staring at him with slowly dawning horror. As if he cannot believe he has suggested such a thing, but the idea is already planted, and this cannot be stopped, his voice is light, careful as he stares at Valarr, hoping that this man before him understands how there will be no going back from this. 

“Listen to me, and listen carefully Valarr, if you marry her, you marry her on Dragonstone like our ancestors and hers. You will be lawfully recognized as married, and she will be your wife, she will be a Targaryen. This will offer her protection from her mother, but it will also tie you to each other from that point on. Which means you, Valarr, are responsible for her, you will claim a dowry from her family, and this will be put towards us and her trips to her home country.”

Baelor sighs, shutting his eyes, “She will be crown princess, therefore she will have to spend half her time here in Westeros to tend to her duties, but she can spend the other half elsewhere. We are fortunate planes exist, therefore it will be quick to travel to her should you need to for whatever reason, or her to you. And, as duty demands, she must provide an heir and a spare, minimum.”

A Lannister queen, it is what they have wanted, and Baelor knows that it will be a point of contention that it is you who will be that Lannister. You carry none of their blood, only their surname. They will not give you the dowry you are owed, but he is also more than a little determined to get his hands on a Lannister daughters’ dowry when she will be wed to the crown. It would be an insult for them to give less than what is deserved, for you deserve to be treated as if you were blood. 

People will talk of it as well, and some will chafe at the idea of a foreigner queen, but the Targaryens were foreigners too at one point. Baelor is not them though, and instead his intrigue has only grown about you, “Bring her to dinner once you are wed.”

“Dinner as in you, Matarys, and I, or dinner as in everyone with a drop of Targaryen blood that isn’t the Blackfyres?”

Baelor’s face pinches at the mention of his cousins and aunts and uncles, which only makes Valarr roll his eyes. He understands that it was a matter of succession that caused the rift between Baelor and Daemon, but it is nice to think of what there could have been. Then he sees the other Blackfyre’s and wonders if it was always doomed in their shared blood. He knows you’re good friends with one of the Blackfyre girls, she’s in the same year as you and Valarr. 

“We’ll do just the three of us first, let Matarys and I meet our in-law properly before throwing her into the dragon pit.”

Another silence as Valarr mules over Baelor’s words, the possibilities, the answer that’s far too tempting, and all of this rests on you agreeing to such a match. There is always the possibility you could say no, but he also has a really convincing plan in case you say no, and he hopes that will be enough to get you to say yes. He can even commission a ring and get one really quickly. But he’ll need to get your ring size and preference first. 

“You’re truly okay with me running off to Dragonstone to marry a Lannister?”

Baelor grunts, reaching for the whisky that sits innocently to the side, “If she was a foreigner before a Lannister then we shall survive her joining the fold. But first I would win her forgiveness, if you’ve been sulking here since the gala over her I doubt you’ve paid her much attention.”

“I…might have an idea about how to do that.”

“Good, now make sure you pull this insanity off, that dowry of hers is going to help us greatly.”

“Will you tell my uncles?”

“Of course not.”

Which means he absolutely is, and Valarr can only sigh. 

______________

You don’t expect Valarr to show up at your door bearing far too much food, and an apology that he blurts out as soon as he sees your face. You wonder if his cheeks are red from the cold or from the abruptness. Either way you step to the side, letting him in as he exhales in clear relief before taking a deep breath, “I meant to say that I’m sorry, for leaving you alone like I did. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I think we should discuss over dinner if that’s okay with you. Unless you had other plans of course, I know I should’ve called you earlier but I didn’t know if you were going to pick up a-”

“Valarr. Breathe.”

He does, greedily, his blush coming back as he holds the bags out to you, “I got your favorite? We just need to warm it up.”

Valarr tilts his head and for a moment you must remind yourself that you are still cross with him. He perks up when you sigh and motion for him to come along to your kitchen, and his shoes do come off at some point, for he knows better than to wear them into the house. Angie is there, having prepared herself for Thursday dinner again, and now she freezes when you and Valarr enter with bags of goods. 

“Your Highness, “she drops into a curtsey, and then she sees the bags on his arms and the slight conspiratorial look you give her. This is what a man looks like when he begs for you properly. You tug on one of the bags, prompting him to set them down before you nod towards Angie, “They need to be reheated if you don’t mind. We will be taking dinner in the upstairs sitting room.”

“Of course, anything to drink in particular?”

“Hot black tea, jasmine, no sugar, no cream.”

“It’ll be up soon.”

“Thank you Angie.”

Without waiting you move to your stairs, stepping up them two at a time. Valarr huffs but he follows closely, though he can never catch up until you’re in your sitting room. This, like everything else, is designed not in your wants or needs, but rather your mothers’ picture of perfection. But unlike the downstairs area where there are chairs that scrape against the floor and tables that will bruise your hips if you accidentally knock yourself against it. This room has thick cushions that line the floor and low-rise tables, there are bolsters and tall pillows to lean against. 

Valarr, now that it is calm, can take note of your appearance, the dark satin robe that hangs off your shoulders, pooling in the crooks of your elbows like a taunt, the waist held together with a wide fabric belt, the rest framing your legs and trailing after you. Underneath all of that is a very short, very lacy dress, and it is in a shade of red that drives him mad. It is as if you have worn such a thing on purpose for the sole reason of making things more difficult for him. 

He can’t even be mad about it, not really, and so he swallows his pride and clears his throat, knowing that it is here and now or never at all, “I’d like to be straightforward with you, and I’d appreciate if you let me get everything out before you decide to kick me to the curb, but I’d understand if you do, alright?”

You hum, head raising a tad, “You’re not making yourself look very good right now princeling, my favorite food or not.”

Valarr flushes again, trying desperately not to look at the dip of your chest, the swell of your breast when it is covered in nothing but dark red lace and silk. This feels like he’s playing a game that he’s not aware of, and that he’s losing, badly. You, on the other hand, are having a fantastic time watching him squirm around and try to spit out the words he wants to say. 

It did not take a genius to figure out that he’s likely gone awol over something to do with your relationship status, which you truly do not know where it stands. You and he have not kissed, but you have danced, and there was the balcony. He got some secrets from you, and then he avoided you for a month. The explanation he offers has got to be worth it, and truly if it wasn’t then you were going to forgive him anyway just for the sake of going out to get food. 

“Well?”

He groans, and then he straightens himself up, and the energy shifts just like that. Whatever he has to say, you know it is important, and deep within you there was an awareness that his avoidance was not to do with your faults, but some other external factor. Valarr looks at you and he does not shy away when you look at him right back. Neither of you are willing to back down, and whatever he has to say you will whether through it as you have with everything else. 

“We’re falling in love.”

Fact. Still, to hear it so plainly put makes your heart stutter and your breath leave you with a rush, making you greedy when you breathe again. You did not think he was unaware of his own emotions, you just weren’t entirely sure if he knew what you were feeling too. It feels good though for him to acknowledge it, even if it makes you sit up and lean towards him, aware that this is a pivotal thing for you and him, “We are.”

Agreement. He eases some, and he too leans forward a little bit, “I have a plan for getting you to your home country. At least for a little bit, and for some parts of the year, and it involves getting married.”

For a moment it feels as if you were cannonballing towards the sun and abruptly hit a wall. Like a shooting star streaking across the sky, unmovable, your direction cleared for you, only to have a bigger meteor cross paths with you, shattering you to pieces and throwing you every which way. Married. Marriage. A marriage to Valarr, and you have known him for five months now, nearly six. You are aware of your depth in emotion, knowing that if given the opportunity he would become your greatest love, and only love if you were truthful. 

Are you willing to become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? To birth heirs and to become wrapped by flame and guarded by sharp teeth and claws? Your entire identity would be tied to Westeros, to this kingdom and his legacy and you would once again change your surname, except this time you would become a Targaryen instead of a Lannister. On the other hand, you would be freer than you are now, and you would no longer be subjected to your mothers’ envy. Your blood is rushing in your ears, your heart pounding against your chest and you feel something warm dripping down your face as you process his words. 

Valarr’s eyes widen and you bring your fingers up to your nose tentatively, pulling them away to find that you are bleeding. It is then that Angie knocks, and she enters a second later, only to find that there is blood starting to pool on the table just as Valarr is about to open his mouth. You are still stuck on the marriage part. Married to him, to Valarr. You think of the dress you wore at the gala, how you would be able to wear it again, and other things too. You’d have access to it all, and you’d get the love match you had coveted but believed would not be yours to take. 

Angie sets the drinks down quickly, running off to get a towel as you stare at Valarr before you nod, uncaring of how the blood splatters, or how it runs down your lip and drips off your chin, “Yes? Yes. I-oh gods.”

Valarr’s eyes bulge, because honestly he hadn’t expected you to say yes, he had expected you to tell him to get the fuck out of your apartment and come back when he had something smart to ask you. The blood just doesn’t help at all, and yet he can’t help the breathless laugh, because this has to be one of the worst proposals his bloodline has ever partaken in. He has no ring, he doesn’t even know what kind you would like, and your face is smeared in blood as if you’ve broken your nose badly. Yet you said yes, and that is all that matters. 

Angie comes back in, pressing the towel to your nose before you look at her, still dazed, and manages to get out despite the towel on your face, “I’m going to be a princess Angie, can you believe it?”

She pauses, staring at you, and then slowly, she turns her head to look at Valarr, who’s still trying to wrap his head around your acceptance. He offers a shaky thumbs up instead, and gets half a mind to call his father to tell him he’s successfully secured a daughter-in-law. But the most pressing issue, as of right now, is that he hasn’t gotten to kiss you yet, and he really, desperately, wants to. Angie pulls away slowly, pleased that the blood has stopped, and you begin to wipe your face as best as you can, “You are truly to be wed?”

Valarr nods, never looking away from you, “We are, as soon as we’re able to, we're going to fly to Dragonstone, and we will be wed in the customs of Old Valyria, and the customs of her ancestors to the best of our ability.”

“Do your parents know?”

“My father is aware, he has given his blessing to the union, we will inform her parents when we come to collect her dowry.”

“Well then, my biggest congratulations to you my lady, and you as well my prince.”

“Thank you, truly.”

She leaves, and Valarr takes the wetted towel from you, dabbing at your face as gently as he can while you allow him to do such a thing. We are falling in love. There is no choice in the matter, not really, not when it comes to you and him and the way you both orbit each other. A declaration, a foundation. He wipes at your cheeks, keeping your head steady with his other hand, watching the red fade away. You’ll need warmer water to get everything off, but it is enough with the towel as it is now. He dabs at your chin, your nose itself, and then finally he’s at your lips. Pressing the cloth to the edge of your mouth before he falters. 

Your lips are reddened, plush and there, his eyes flick up to yours, and he finds you watching him carefully. His head tilts to the side a little, and you inch forward a little, head tilting up. This is the permission he needs to close the distance between you both. A first kiss is sweet, simple, just enough to solidify the bond. One of your hands comes up to his hair, mussing up his brown locks more than they already are. He presses forward a little more, tossing the towel aside so he can hold your waist, and after a moment you both have to break apart for air. 

It is the thing that makes it real for you, that you will be his wife, that you are in this for the long haul with him. He kisses the side of your mouth, then your cheek before your forehead, and he draws you over to him until you’re practically on top of him. For a moment Valarr holds you like that, with your arms under his and your chin against his shoulder, your body practically in his lap as he clings to you. This allows you to ground yourself, for you are still reeling over the turn of events. You hadn’t expected an apology, a proposal, and a ticket home. 

Home. You sit up, eyes alight, “You said you had a plan to get me home, even if it was for a little bit.”

Valarr grins, nodding, “I do, well first off we can go honeymooning off in your home country, and as long as you remain in King’s Landing for let’s say nine months out of the year you can spend the other three wherever you wish to be. I will not be able to go for that long, but you can, only you might have to carry some duties overseas, and it has to be in certain parts of the year. But you will no longer be under the thumb of your mother, or the Lannisters, you will have your own money, and although I would prefer it if we shared a home you have your own private apartments too.”

“And you would be alright with it? If I am gone three months out of the year to be somewhere thousands of miles away?”

“If it is the thing that makes you happy then I will gladly bear with it, besides, it will give me an excuse to leave Westeros for a month or so too. I am always free to say that it is a diplomatic trip to a foreign government. And in the future our children will need to know where their roots lay, and I will not deny them their legacy.”

“The king has approved of this?”

“My grandfather will, Father already has, in fact, he was the one who suggested the plan. I suppose he and everyone else were getting sick of my moping.”

You raise your brows, “Moping? Is that what you were doing while you were ignoring my existence?”

His cheeks flush again as he huffs, “In my fairness, I had thought that if I married you then I’d make it impossible for you to return to your roots, and I’d hate it if my selfishness caused you pain.”

“I would’ve found my way home no matter what, but I am happy it is you I am going to be bound to for the rest of our lives.”

You take one cup of tea, sipping on it before raising it to his lips so he can drink as well, “We will wed in the Valyrian custom on Dragonstone, but for my side of the marriage that will wait until this summer, when we are with my family.”

Valarr pauses again, steeling himself for another perspective-altering secret as his hands tighten on you, “Your family?”

For a moment you are silent, the joy of your engagement fading as you think of the people you have left behind, the people you’d give your legs to see just one more time. Your fathers’ face flashes through your head, his face your own in certain angles and light, twisted into anguish on the night your mother took you away from your home. 

“My mother and I are the only ones here in Westeros, just as she intended. But I did have a father, and I did have older siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, two sets of grandparents. I’m…not sure if they’ll be where I left them, but I can only hope that they are.”

“We’ll find them regardless of whether they’ve moved to other places, we’re rich and famous, resources at our disposal that most people don’t. We’ll find them.”

You kiss him, mostly in thanks but also because you can now, it’s allowed. 

________________

Baelor is barely awake when he gets his first call of the day, and it’s from his secretary, who never calls him before eleven unless there’s an emergency. It’s barely seven, and so he answers as soon as he registers who’s calling him, “Lyanna-”

“Forgive the interruption Your Highness, but I’ve just received word of your eldest son, Valarr, who has taken the private jet to Dragonstone after purchasing a ring for Young Lady Lannister if all is assumed to be correct. I fear there is little any of us can do in regards to him getting his way and marrying her in secret.”

The conversation he had with Valarr had been last week, and he hadn’t really seen his son since, but he thought nothing of it either. He had known it would happen, but when he had said soon he had expected within the next six to twelve months sort of soon. Not the following week. He groans, running a hand down his face, “Yes, I did give him permission to marry the Lannister girl. I just didn’t expect it to be so soon.”

On the other end of the phone Lyanna pauses, “Sir, are you informing me that you supported an elopement between your heir and the eldest Lannister daughter without informing either parties families?”

“Gods Lyanna I suggested to him last week that if he wanted to get the things he wanted then marriage was the obvious answer. Under the circumstances, yes, it had to be secret, but I thought I would have time to at least inform my family of this. Who else knows what Valarr’s up to?”

“His staff, and as it appears, Lady Lannisters’ staff as well.”

“Do not gossip about this to the other family staff, and do not let them be bothered for the remainder of the week. When they come back, arrange for dinner with them the following day.”

“Of course, and sir?”

“Yes?”

“Congradulations, you have a daughter now.”

She hangs up, and Baelor flops back into his bed, desperately wishing Maekar was there too so he could relate about their offspring being such headaches. He just hoped that if Matarys ever did decide to wed that hopefully there would be some warning from him. Then his eyes fly open at the thought of his nephew Aerion wedding someone, and that’s even more dreadful than a surprise wedding. 

_______________

Valarr shows you around the old family castle before he marries you. He shows you the dragon nest, the old eggs that line the shelves, so imposing that it makes you shiver. You trace your finger over one of them, a pretty purple egg that fades to an opalescent white, everything so light it’s nearly translucent. For a moment you think of your home country, the volcanoes with their bubbling magma and the scent of smoke in the air, forever shrouding the city with smog. 

The dragons would have liked your home, they would have made good use of it too, and you think at some point it was true. There are bones, you have seen them yourself, of these beasts. But the information is never publicly released, instead it stays as the biggest open secret to your people, and the bones are passed down generation to generation. You have a tooth, long and sharper than knives, it has been carved into by grandmothers generation after generation ago. 

Valarr points to a different egg, this one dark blue and flecked by gold, he grins a little crookedly at it, “This was the egg placed in my cradle when I was young, of course it never hatched, but maybe one day it will.”

There are thirty-one eggs on the wall, each one that had gone cold or never hatched kept on display, seeming to wait for selection. You take in their array of colors, the pulse of possibility in their mere existence. These are some of the last dragon eggs in the world, the only other place with a rivaling possession being the triarchs of Volantis. Valarr steps closer to you, taking the egg that had caught your eye off the shelf. He eyes it, lets the weight rest in his hand before he offers it to you, voice dropping into something heavier. 

“When our child is born you will be the one to select the eggs that will lay in their cradle with them. For every child that will be born to you, an egg will be picked, and we will pray that it hatches.”

You inhale sharply, thinking of the power that your children will hold in their hands. The potential that they might unlock. Dragons, you think, are always a possibility, you do not doubt them, not when an egg lays in your hands, large and heavy. It is still powerful, even when it is encased by hard shells and beautiful colors mixed together, “We will take the eggs to my homeland if they do not hatch. There is a volcano which is said to have birthed a dragon before.”

“Is there really?”

“Yes, and if you wish, on our honeymoon, we can go to the cave where it is believed that the dragon was born. You have dragon blood, and the magic has faded but it has not declined completely.”

“You think there’s a chance an egg will hatch.”

“I am willing to believe my people’s stories.”

He looks back at the egg, at the possibilities of a dragon coming back to the fold to start off his marriage with you. That will be a boon with a scale he does not know the extent of, only that his ancestors will have no choice but to be thankful to you, “We will take the egg, and if it hatches, we will have a dragon to raise.”

“Good practice for us.”

Valarr shakes his head, placing the egg back before your arms can tire, “A dragon is far different from a babe.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Let us not think of babies and dragons at the moment, let us get dressed instead, our wedding will be upon us shortly.”

You turn your back to the eggs, nodding as you take his arm, “You will have to help me, I am unfamiliar with your customs.”

“Everyone is, do not worry.”

And so you are off to be married. 

_________________

Truthfully, your wedding ceremony is more of a blur than a memory, but you can feel the pride and elation through it all. You had felt the sting of blood being drawn, had let Valarr’s blood linger on your tongue and let said blood be drawn over your face. He had gotten the same treatment in return, and you remember feeling his too warm skin under your thumb, the wet smear of blood making the movements glide easier. 

After that was food, and when evening came, you and he retreated to his chambers. Daylight had begun to dwindle before dinner time as it often did in the Winter, but you did not mind, not when there was a fire to sit at on furs thrown around the floors with comfortable pillows to lounge on. You had made yourself comfortable there, warming your body as you waited for Valarr to finish up in the bathroom. You had shed most of your wedding clothes, leaving nothing but the chemise and stockings you had underneath. 

Your hair was still pinned up, but you would get Valarr to remove them for you. While you waited you watched the flames dancing before you, their tendrils flicking and weaving, and you could swear the flames burned hotter here on Dragostone. The egg reappeared in your mind, the beauty of it and what lay inside, you could understand why the Targaryen’s had coveted their dragons like they did. It was a privilege just to be amongst what remained of them. 

Valarr came out of the restroom, nothing but a pair of sweatpants on his hips when he saw you at the fireplace. You lounged on your side, giving the shape of your body away as you laid there, utterly entranced by the fire before you. It wasn’t visible, but Valarr knew you were wearing your wedding ring, the diamonds bright and perfect against your finger. A symbol of your union, of him miraculously going from single to married in the span of less than two weeks. 

That part still boggles his mind, and a rush of pleasure courses through him when he looks at you and knows that you are his wife. You are not just a fling, a girlfriend who will be discarded somewhere along the road because the crown demands that he marry someone of good standing. The ring on your finger, the blood on your face, the change in your legal status is permanent, and Valarr silently thanks every god and goddess he believes in for the opportunity of a lifetime. 

He comes over slowly, and you do not notice he is there until he kneels beside you and leans down to kiss your cheek. It makes you startle a little, but you relax upon seeing that it is him, your face tilts upward, and he leans down to kiss you properly. You sit up, stretching a little as you lean into him, feeling his arm settle on your hip, his preferred place to rest his hand as you have discovered. He is an extra source of warmth, Targaryen in the way that his body is hotter than most, you dread to see what a fever would look like on him. 

You do not think much about it though, not when you can feel him as close to you as he can be, not when you think about how this is somehow your future, for a while at least. Just you and Valarr, a room to yourselves and the strain of responsibility with eyes that judge all having been shut away. The crown will demand children of you and Valarr early, as it demands all couples of your standings. Far too many people believe marriage will only have value should an heir be produced, but you also refuse to be twenty-one and pregnant. 

At the very least you have the excuse of keeping it quiet for a long while, and for that you are grateful. You think of the moontea that will wait for you sooner than later, a taste you have had a handful of times, rare and sporadic as those times were. It would be a lie to say you have not instructed Angie to pack some away with you whenever you departed for Dragonstone. Not that you have told Valarr, and truthfully, you do not know how to bring it up, so you keep quiet. 

But the urge to say something grows as his hand begins to drift over your body, and it was innocent at first, just a slight skim of his hand, but his fingers are trailing over your thigh. They are getting closer, hitching the fabric of your chemise up a tad, but you notice, and he’s watching you as you notice. Your breath hitches just for a second, and that is what makes him dig his fingers in a little, a pressure that makes your cunt pulse unexpectedly. Valarr hums, pressing a kiss to your jaw, nipping the skin there, forcing you to tilt your head towards the side a little bit. 

You shiver as he draws away a little, drifting closer to your ear, “Yes?”

He makes your head spin, and he has barely touched you, it is just his fingers a little too close to your center and a few kisses, but you are already beginning to grow a little slick. The worst part is that you have nothing underneath the chemise except for the socks, which come up to your upper thighs and are tied off with black velvet ribbons. Traditional, you had been informed of when they were dressing you, a good start to a good night. You could understand that now. 

“Yes.”

You can only make a small noise as Valarr’s free hand comes between your thighs, the hand on your hip coming up to your chin, forcing your head to tilt more.  The tip of his middle finger circles at your hole, drawing even slick out of you so he can drag it up to your clit. Your thighs jolt when he touches you there, a harsh puff of breath forcing itself from you as your fingers curl into fists. He grins against your neck, his mouth having busied itself by suckling a bruise there, “Does that feel good?”

He circles your clit slowly, feeling it throb a little as you nod, struggling to get out a yes as his other finger comes to your hole, pressing in until the second joint. The hand on your jaw leaves so it can come up to your tit, where he thumbs at your rapidly hardening nipple. It is a spot you did not think you were sensitive in, but evidently when he touches you there it does become pleasurable. He shifts his hand, his thumb replacing his middle finger which moves down to press into you, replacing the other finger. Valarr watches as your chest begins to shallowly heave, your mouth dropping open as your eyes shut, face scrunched up in pleasure. 

Your thigh opens up more, and he takes the advantage of the opening to leave your clit and instead sink the entirety of his middle finger into you. That makes you whine, your hand instinctively coming to grip his arm as you clamp down on his finger. The hand on your tit slides down to stroke your clit, and that makes you loosen up enough to where he can begin to work the finger in and out of you. He is deliberate in where he crooks his fingers as he moves them, his finger consistently brushing against a pleasurable spot in you. 

Valarr can feel his own arousal, cock straining against his sweatpants as you take his pace and fingers. He teases a second finger at your entrance, letting it prod and tease for a moment before he pushes that finger in as well, letting it go all the way until he has his index and middle finger pressed against your g-spot, stroking it lightly as you moan, thighs jolting once again. You feel his fingers so keenly within you, his ministrations maddening as he forces you to feel every little thing that he does to you. It is so good that it is damning, and Valarr knows it too. 

Those fingers begin to spread apart rhythmically, beginning to come in and out, torturously slow at first before beginning to pick up speed. Soon you are pressing down on his fingers, biting your lip in an attempt to keep your noises at bay. Valarr delights in how you cannot control a single thing about how you react to him, your pleasure on full display as he fingers you open. He knows you want your composure back, but you cannot grasp it, and any time you do it is short lived. 

The pace has grown relentless, and his fingers are all you can focus on, truly. You still have a grip on your voice but nothing else. Pleasure burns through the embarrassment of withering on his fingers like you are, and you can feel the build within you. A slow mounting of heat and pleasure that every man you have been with has denied you. So you sag against him, whining for him not to stop and he can tell you are close, so he pushes a little harder, and that is what does you in. You cry out before a whimper spills from you as your body convulses, your tits heaving as your body shudders. 

That sight of you nearly makes Valarr soil his britches like he’s a teenager again, and miraculously, he does not. For a moment he holds you there, letting you come down from your high before he kisses your cheek again, “You did so good for me, why don’t you lay down?”

You nod sluggishly, letting him position you so your head and hips are on pillows, and your thighs stay shut together. Then he swings one leg over you, and he leans over your body, kissing your shoulders and leaving bites as you watch the flames, sighing in contentment. He spits into his hand, using it to slick his cock up before he presses the head against your hole, feeling it twitch as your eyes dart back to his. He doesn’t enter you, but he does take hold of your ass, “Are you still alright?”

For a second all you think about is having that dick inside of you right now, and then you are forced to answer, “M’good, promise.”

“Tell me to stop and I promise you I will, okay?”

“Okay.”

He pushes forward, just enough to get the head of him in, and you moan into the pillow from the stretch. Valarr begins to push his way inside, and your eyes start to water as you feel yourself stretch around his girth and length. You can feel his veins, the slight ridges his cock holds, the way it is hot and literally heavy inside of you. His hands brace themselves against your head, his body hovering over yours, pressing you into the pillows. 

You can do nothing but adjust around him, taking as deep of breaths as you can while he holds himself still. Your dress is rucked up over your hips, and you wouldn’t be surprised if it wound up off of you by the end. Valarr shifts his body down a little bit, dropping to his forearm on one side while the other reaches to grip underneath your hip, holding you steady as he starts to move. The slow drag of his cock in you is perhaps worse than when he entered you the first time, your cunt clings to him, and he can’t help but groan at the feeling. 

Being inside of you is better than he had thought it would be, and there is truly something special in feeling how you clamp down on him, desperate to keep him. He curses quietly, pushing him back in faster, a little more forceful, and he doesn’t falter inside of you either. In and out with each push beginning to come faster than the other one. You feel the pleasure starting to build as his pace finds stability, the angle of his hips making it so you are well stimulated, body arching up a little to meet his. 

Valarr sits himself up, hands sliding down your sides until he’s gripping your hips, letting his fingers dig into your soft skin there. You cannot help the soft, punched out moans that get partially muffled as he fucks you pliant. All you can see is the fire dancing before you, and if you try to look up you see Valarr’s face pinched in pleasured concentration, the thin silver chain he wears barely visible against his skin. 

He pauses to adjust the both of you, rolling you onto your back with your legs hanging open around his hips before he resumes the pace prior. The different angle is more pleasurable if all possible, even with the ache in your thighs from holding them open. Valarr leans down to you again, kissing and nipping up your neck before he tugs at your chemise, and you sit up to help take it off. This gives him full access to your breasts and collarbones, which he wastes no time in marking up with the small bites and bruises. Your fingernails scrape up his back, ghosting over the nape of his neck so he shudders before your hand tangles in his hair, tugging it a little to make him moan as he snaps his hips a tad harsher into you than before. 

You reach your hand down to your clit, only for him to smack your fingers away so he can touch you himself. It is enough to bring you closer to the edge faster than you would have if it was your own doing. He hisses as you clamp down on him, your pussy seemingly determined to see him ruined for you. His free hand holds your hip in place, making it so you can’t jerk away from him. Sweat runs down your body, down his, and he will have to take a second shower, but you don’t care. Not when you drag him down so you can sink your teeth into his shoulder, hard enough to nearly draw blood. 

Valarr curses, his pace quickening, making it rougher as you’re forced to take the pointed thrusts. But this is what you have been chasing from him, you had known that underneath his gentle demeanor was the truth of his origin. The small ridges on his dick are too precise to be a genetic deformity, and you remember what they have said of his blood. Dragon blood. You can only guess what that tells for his anatomy, you assumed it spoke of a nature that you could evoke and you alone. 

A correct assumption judging from the way he starts to move, the sounds he makes grow deeper, harsh pants and short moans that make you throb around his length. His attention to your clit does not grow rougher, but he does move his finger faster, the other hand comes up to your tit, grasping it with less gentleness than he had earlier. That makes you grin, your pleasure and satisfaction mingling as he forces you to spill noises you would ordinarily never make with anybody. 

He is different though, he is your eternity, and you know you will never take another into you, just how he will never lose himself like he is with you. You lay there on pillows and furs, firelight licking your skin and illuminating you more beautifully than any golden sunset could. Valarr takes the sight in as if it will burn away, memorizing the way your head lolls to the side, the halo mess of your hair and the bounce of your chest with each of his movements. 

Your hand comes to his cheek, knuckles brushing against the skin and his jaw, making him look at you. Nobody will see Valarr’s eyes like you do, not when they are like this. The purple eye and the blue eye, Targaryen and Andal, you do not care about any of it, not when it comes to him. This union will bring consequences, not that you think of them when he’s fucking any sort of thinking from your brain, and you find that you do not care, not really. 

Valarr is going to bring you home, and you are going to be a princess, a crown princess at that. He leans down to kiss you again, and that is a messy thing. Teeth and tongue, a spill of blood over a bitten lip that leaves your tongue tasting like metal. The hand that has been on your breast leaves, coming to your face instead as your arms come around to his back, leaving red lines that leave him groaning. You can feel him twitching in you, no doubt close to reaching his peak. The idea of him spilling inside you, warm release and a risk that leaves a rush through you. Moontea works most of the time, very rarely failing, and you hope this will not be one of those rare times. 

One of your legs comes to hook around his waist and he whines, just a bit, at the implication you’ve given him. The fingers on your clit stroke with a fraction more urgency, his determination to see you wither on his cock drowning out his own desire for release. He noses at the side of your face, his voice close to your ear as you feel that familiar heat rising in you, making your thighs shake as you reach towards your peak. Valarr can feel you getting tighter, making it harder to move in and out of you but in turn making his pleasure grow. 

He will not last much longer, he knows that soon his movements will falter and he will go boneless. You can feel his rhythm starting to derail and so you push him up a little bit, keeping him steady while you purposefully clench down, and that is what makes him spend. Truthfully the only reason you have pushed him up is because you desired to see his face when he cummed, and it is a pretty sight. Mouth parted as his eyebrows scrunch upwards, he tries not to collapse forward as he fills your cunt. 

His fingers don’t falter though, and when he shivers your own release comes over you. With a moan your back arches up, body seeming to throb as you flutter around him. Valarr can only whimper, hoping you didn’t hear (you did), as your cunt begins to milk him, and he would pull out but it’s worth it to see you as your body tenses, shaking and so still you cannot breathe while the initial high hits you. He sighs in relief when your body sags like you’ve been cut free from puppet strings, loosening up enough to where he can withdraw himself slowly. 

You crack your eyes open, grinning when he lays himself down beside you, utterly spent before he grins too. He begins to laugh, and so do you, and it is perfect, truly, how your first time with him has gone. Valarr leans over to give you another kiss, tugging your body towards him so you can partially lay atop of him, dragging a pillow under his head as he adjusts you both. 

“Thank you, you were perfect, “he says to you as he strokes down your back, content to lay with you there for a while, regaining the sensation in his body. Sex with you is like having all his favorite foods served in one meal, delight after delight, something to savor and devour all at once. There is more that he will do with you, perhaps not tonight, but throughout his marriage with you. Because that is the whole point of any of this, a life with you, a future with you.