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Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x Velaryon!Reader Setting: A Knight Of The Seven Kingdoms (post The Hedge Knight). Summary: The events in Ashford have changed the fate of House Targaryen in a tragic way as Baelor Breakspear perished after the trial of seven. The eyes of the realm now falls on Baelor's firstborn, Valarr, who is weighed down by the burden of the crown and the grief he feels at his father’s death. To shield him from the court's gaze, Daeron sends Valarr to Driftmark to seal a marriage pact, not knowing he will find solance in your company. Word Count: 11,5 K Warnings: Mature contents, angst, hurt and comfort, mention of a major character death, grief and loss, implied depression, arranged marriage, suggestive intimacy, light smut, p in v sex, oral (f receiving), virgin Valarr and Reader, inexperienced sex, implied loss of virginity, Aegon III / Daenaera dynamics like, Reader has the typical Velaryon features, Baelor haunts the narrative, hopeful ending, no beta'd. Please, tell me if I have missed something else!
A.N. It has been so long, but I finally finished this giant fantasy I had while listening to sad songs. I'm not in a good mental space lately, so I poured out all my pain and distress in this fic. It's not the best fic I've made, it was way better in my mind, I still hope you can enjoy it and I hope I didn't made Valarr too OOC (it's my first time writing for him, sorry-). Now I can finally resume all the readings and write all the requests I paused and look at the asks in the inbox, enjoy this all! 💜
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ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. I APOLOGISE IN ADVANCE FOR MY GRAMMAR AND VOCABULARY MISTAKES.
VALARR TARGARYEN MASTERLIST
The surrounding landscape of Ashford Castle was the perfect blend of old-world charm and natural beauty, where ancient stone walls met the untamed beauty of nature. The yard was made from a rock idle connected with the castle, — dark rocks blending with tufts of green grass and small yellow ears of corn — spacious enough to welcome nobles and host formal gatherings. The laughter of these guests, once carried on the wind, still seemed to linger in the mossy crevices of the stone.
That day, however, the wind carried the whispers of the dead and the salt tears of the ones who loved, along with the memories of the ones who lay on the arms of the Stranger.
Baelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King and Protector of the Realm, perished on the second day of the Ashford tourney, standing as a champion for a hedge knight whose guilt was to strike the royal blood in defense of an innocent puppeteer.
His body lay on a pyre of cedar and pine wood, wrapped in a shiny black armour with the Targaryen sygil embodied on it, a golden chain adorning his neck and his sheathed sword by his side. His face was calm, relaxed and composed, carrying the same dignity and nobility which distinguished him when he was alive.
When the pyre was lit and the flames reached up into the cloudy sky, no one dared to speak. Three members of the Kingsguard — Ser Williem Wylde, Ser Roland Crakehall, and Ser Donnel of Duskendale — stood rigidly, hands on the hilts of their swords, their white armour gleaming on their battered and gloomy faces. Prince Maekar stood few steps behind, his son Aegon gathered at his side; his face was bruised, his eyes were vacant and his hands were still. He had schooled every muscle in his face to hold, because Aegon was beside him and a father could not crumble before his son. But beneath that stillness something turned inside, and guilt haunted him like a dreadful ghost.
A few steps further stood the new Prince of Dragonstone, Valarr.
The Young Prince was the perfect embodiment of the righteousness, with his shoulders and back straight as a rod, striking a serious yet dignified pose. His face was a mask, and a convincing one: jaw set, eyes dry, gaze fixed upon the fire with the kind of steadiness that lesser men might have mistaken for composure. At first glance, Valarr appeared to be a young man who had chosen to wear his grief with grace and honour, the same principles that his father had upheld throughout his brief life.
Yet every fortress has a crack that allows you to catch the slightest glimpse of what lies beyond. And judging by his small gestures, Valarr was not immune to pain.
His hands were clasped together, straining the fabric of his dark doublet. His eyes, one pale blue as open water and the other warm brown as heartwood, were dull and fixed on his father’s motionless figure, as he watched the flames slowly engulf him, for him being a blood of the dragon and his end was writ in flame. He felt a tightness in his throat, swallowing a lump every time he felt his eyes welling up; but his gaze did not waver, and tears failed to stream down his face.
Valarr loved Baelor with the a painful sincerity and intense devotion of a son who has always believed that his father is better than him in every way. Valarr was shorter and slimmer, not the fierce and powerful warrior Baelor was, and his youthful inexperience made him impatient and impulsive, whereas his father weighed up his impulses and displayed a cool, rational calm, yet never lost his mercy towards his foes. Baelor had been good in a way that seemed unwordly, and Valarr had spent his whole life quietly wondering whether that goodness was something a man was born with, or something that could be learned. Sadly, he will never find this answer from him.
"He died in my armour," Valarr murmured with steady yet regretful voice. His gaze drifted somewhere beyond the wildness of Ashford Meadow while Ser Duncan's condolences reached him as if from a great distance. Baelor had barely known the hedge knight, yet he had found a reason enough, in that blunt and honest heart of his, reason enough to die for him. Valarr had tried to cultivate hatred towards him in his heart, but nothing close to it never emerged.
"He had it in him to be the greatest king, since Aegon the Dragon," the young prince said at the horizon, and the next question that fell out from his mouth was the quietest form of anger his body could produce. Why would the gods take him and leave you?
But with this question still unanswered and grief sitting heavily in his chest, Valarr mounted his horse and resumed his journey back to King's Landing. He had left the city as the heir's heir, and he would cross its gates again as heir apparent to the Iron Throne, with all the little joy he could ever feel.
And when Daeron the Good would draw his last breath, Valarr would wear a crown his father had never lived to wear it, forged not in fire and blood, but in grief and in loss.
The Red Keep was gloomier than he remembered.
The corridors of pale marble were now like soft hues of grey stones, cold and unmoved by the passage of time. Even the torches burned low in their sconces — or perhaps they burned the same, and it was only his eyes that had changed, learning in the space of a fortnight to perceive darkness where there had once been light.
His footsteps felt like heavy echoes in his ears, and all the guards and servants that crossed his way stood still and bowed in respect, murmurs of 'Your Grace' and 'my prince' felt like a distant sound. Valarr could see from his mismatched eyes that pity was performed on their faces, and some of the servants still cried at his passage.
Or maybe they were just living and performed their duties day after day, as they always did once they crossed the heavy doors of the Red Keep, but the Young Prince's eyes were too clouded by grief to give a proper judgement of his surroundings.
Once back to the castle, Valarr avoided the unbearable ceremonies of condolences and stormed in his private chambers, facing a task even more gruelling than watching his father burn on a pyre: telling his younger brother, Matarys, that Baelor was in the hands of the Stranger.
He had not yet come of age, a boy of three-and-ten whose gentleness and politeness had already been praised at court. There was a six-year age gap between them — the same that ironically ran between Baelor and Maekar, Valarr thought — yet there was a maturity and sense of duty that was rare to find in boys his age. He knew how sensible Matarys could be, taking all the news and processing them with unnecessary formality or drama.
But when Valarr found him curled on himself at the edge of his bed, blue eyes swollen and shiny and fidgeting one of his father's rings in his hands, he realized that the loss of a parent was a blow hard to absorb even for a quiet soul like him. There were no words spoken between them, only a hug and silent cries, Valarr kissing the crown of his red head and muttering soft apologies, for he feeling responsible of not having stopped Baelor of wearing his armour. He made a vow to himself he would take care of him, taking all his pain away and make him his.
Despite of loathing Aerion for what he did — had him choose a fair punishment, he would had likely demanded his head, thought his exile in Lys was nothing but a meagre consolation — and growing cold with Maekar while never blaming him for the accidental blow that swung, Valarr decided to carry his grief with silence and dignity; his handsome features were veiled with an evident tiredness, his mismatched eyes losing all the lightness they once carried. Black was the colour he started to wear, even in formal occasions. The court had seen the young prince seldom smiling since his return to Ashford, and on the rare occasions when he did, his smile never reached his ears.
The court observed how he adapted to his new role as heir, swiftly adopting the necessary mannerisms and behaviours, suggesting that he had moved on easily. In truth, Valarr had mastered the art of masking his pain, turning himself into this armour and showing the same strong, unwavering resolve as his father.
But even the strongest wall was designed to crack soon.
The small council room was hit by the usual spring warmth, the long windows casting a pleasant light that made the whole room golden at the sight. There was a smell of ink, burning candles and old parchments rolled on the tables, filled with the chatters between Lord Penrose and the Grand Maester about the potential public discontent over the rise in wheat prices.
At the right side of King Daeron II, Valarr listened with forced focus, one cheek resting on his hand while the other one was busy with playing with a small marble ball.
He was named Hand of the King few days after his return in court, the youngest the realm ever had, and he took his role with silent, unhesitating gravity with which he had taken everything else the world had recently seen fit to place upon him.
He had joined few council sessions in the past, watching with a keen eye how Baelor managed a minor small folk crisis or debated on wether to send a traitor to the Wall or setting a public execution. The young prince marveled at how his father could hold a room with a gentle authority, handling situations that could be tedious for even the most experienced sovereign, without losing his temper or raising his voice.
Valarr had studied him in a way a maester studies a written book, hoping to grasp all his wisdom and take into practice once his time would come. But now, he just though how little he felt ready.
Once the council was dismissed, Valarr silently marched towards the Tower of the Hand, a small, darker and more modest chamber than the one of his royal apartments. It was late afternoon when the Young Prince sealed his tenth parchment of the day, the smell of the melted wax so unpleasant enough to make his nose wrinkle in discomfort.
The low orange light filtered through the windows, lighting up the room along with the few candles and the faint glow of the fire. While lifting the gaze, he was finally aware how tired he felt all at once — his head hurt, his back was seized with cramps whilst his stomach growled for lack of food.
The soft knock of the door made him raise his head, huffing nervously. "Leave me," he sneered, his quill moving faster while starting his eleventh parchment, "The Hand is too busy to grant an audience."
"Would the Hand grant an audience to a close kin?" a gentle voice came behind the door, king Daeron appearing without announcing himself. He was't wearing his crown, making him more like a concerned grandsire than the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms itself.
Valarr put the quill down and stood up, only to be stopped by Daeron's hand gesture. "You may sit." He murmured, "I did not come as your king."
"You are still my grandsire, and as such, you deserve the respect you are due." Valarr countered.
"I'd rather enjoy a healthy and content grandson than a somber and dutiful one." Daeron retorted, his tone still kind and careful. He took a set on a chair nearby, and waited for Valarr to sit as well.
"Matarys came to me after supper." Daeron continued, his voice so low as if he was speaking to a wounded animal.
"Of course he did-"
"He said you had not eaten, and had not left this tower since the council has been dismissed." The old king took a brief pause before continuing. "He is worried, Valarr. In the same way your grandmother and me are, in the same way the realm is."
"The realm can breath in relief, I am fine." Valarr replied, his tone unintentionally sharp. He looked down at the half-begun parchment, and resisted the urge to start working again. "TeI am your heir, Your Grace, and your Hand as well. King's Landing shall deserve a prepared Prince when the time comes."
Daeron let out a faint chuckle, which startled Valarr for a bit. "Unless you're planning to depose your own grandsire or praying the Stranger to claim me, you have enough time to prepare yourself for the crown."
Valarr had no answer for that, as he knew he was perfectly true. His mismatched gaze rested on the chaos that reigned on his desk: the little open box, containing the ten parchment perfectly sealed; few half-opened books scattered around, some about the history of Old Valyria, some about the political relationships between the regions of the Seven Kingdoms; the small ceramic inkwell spilled on a blank sheet, leaving drops of solified wax behind.
It was the typical chaos of a young man trying to outrun his grief, burying himself so thoroughly beneath the accumulated weight of books and correspondence. Daeron saw it and smiled bitterly, Valarr followed with a frown.
"Father would be displeased to see all this mess," Valarr managed to say with feeble voice.
"Your father would be proud to see such a diligent son, instead," the old king declared, "but he would be happier to see his son free from his grief, and content with someone standing by his side."
His slender fingers fumbled in the pockets of his doublet, pulling out a parchment. He lent the roll to Valarr, who took it with his inky hands and inspected the wax seal: it was perfectly circular, the sea green shining under the candlelight. An intricate raised stamp of a seahorse could be seen on the seal, the ancient sygil that belonged to House Velaryon of Driftmark, one of the few families in the Seven Kingdoms who could claim to have Old Valyrian blood in their veins, to have ridden dragons in the past and a to have a close connection to House Targaryen even before the Conquest.
Valarr looked up from the parchment and watched the old king, his expression curious as he waited for an explanation.
"I received this on the morrow after your departure for Ashford." Daeron confesses calmly. "I would have liked to give it after you returned, but the news that followed made it… unappropriate."
He folded his hands in his lap and held his grandson's gaze without flinching. "I kept it, in the hope I could find you in a better shape. But we couldn't let Lord Velaryon waiting any longer."
Valarr looked back at the seal, tracing the outline of the sigil with his fingers. After a moment's thought, he swiftly broke the wax seal and unrolled the parchment in front of his grandfather's violet eyes. The handwriting was elegant and precise, and each word was carefully chosen to reflect the importance of the request.
At first Valarr read in silence, the only sounds allowed in the room were two people's slow breathing and the soft crackling of the fire. It took few minutes and a couple of re-readings to fully grasp the weight of what was written.
"A marriage proposal." Valarr announced flatly, his eyes still trained to the parchment. Daeron nodded, his fingers clasped together on his lap.
"Lord Velaryon has a daughter, closer to your age. She has a calm and gentle temperament, and as you she has lost someone dear to her recently." Daeron said. "You may not recall her, but she was presented to the court with her father for few moons, hoping that he might find a decent suitor for her."
Valarr listened carefully, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to recall the memory of the Lord of the Tides appearing in court with his daughter by his side. A fragmented memory surfaced from his memory, blurred at first, then cleaner soon after: a little girl, standing beside her lord father, wearing a gracious sea green gown, composed and polite despite her bashfulness.
He recalled the pale blue hues of her eyes, watching and finding him among the crowd, her little hand squeezing the hem of his father's doublet, the torchlight catching her silver-gold hair, the same Valyrian traits that lacked in Valarr, saved for that silver streak running through his hair.
King Daeron took a careful pause, pondering his next words carefully. "Your cousin Daeron has tied himself to the lady Kiera of Tyrosh, and Aerion has caused so many troubles I wouldn't be surprised no lords have sent a marriage proposal to him yet," Daeron sighed in defeat, almost ashemed by his grandson's reckless behaviour. "Aemon belongs to the Citadel and Matarys have plenty of years to come to age."
"So Lord Velaryon's choice falls on me," Valarr concluded, his fingers nervously playing with one of his late father's rings, an habit he inherited from Baelor himself.
"You have been his choice from the moment he showed his daughter to court, I wager." Daeron muttered, as if he was talking more to himself than to Valarr. "He has a high regard on your late father, a regard that has not faded with his passing.”
Valarr’s gaze didn't waver, though something in it dimmed for a bit. He hit the inside of his cheek, his gaze unfocused on the parchment as he dramatically slumped in his chair. "I don't think I am capable of giving this lady the love his lord father is seeking from this House."
"Lord Velaryon favours strategy and the safety of our Houses over matters of the heart." Daeron explained with unwavering patience, leaning close to his grandson. “Not every marriage begins in love, Valarr. Most begin in need. Affection, if the gods are kind, comes later. And in this case, you may carry the same weight together, if you will allow her."
Valarr opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. His mind drifted unbidden to a long-buried memory of his father, standing in front of the small council's windows, hands clasped on his back as his eyes watched King's Landing thrive another day. Valarr remembered how, on that day, he looked at him, explaining with his unfaltering calm and kindness what would be expected from him once he will be King:
"A king or queen cannot hope to rule wisely without the counsel of their consort. You may be wed out of duty rather than desire, but if you allow your hearts to truly see one another, and if both remain honest and steadfast, then love may yet take root and grow into its most noble form.”
The prince's lips pressed into a thin line: his words lingered steadily in his mind. Despite how much he refused to accept it, his father had stated the simple but cold truth. Baelor himself was tied to a woman he did not choose, but once they had got to know each other, a gentle love and affection blossomed between them.
"If so, I will graciously accept the Lord of the Tides' marriage proposal." Valarr announced in the end, leaving the parchment rolled up on the desk. "I will summon a the council on the morrow. We must arrange the arrival-"
"The matter has been settled already." Daeron interrupted him, his gaze following the young prince's movements. "The fleet is ready. You'll be setting off for Driftmark at dawn."
Valarr froze mid-gesture, his palm pressed on the cold wood of the door. “At dawn?” He asked, his voice betrayed a mixture of surprise. "Why me?"
"It is better for you to stay away from the court for a while." Daeron said, his expression calm but firm. "I am not banishing you like Aerion, but I'm sending you where you may breathe without half the court measuring every silence you keep. You deserve a moment of respite after the tourney, and I promise you Matarys will be well guarded."
A heavy silence settled between them, thick and cold. Every word Valarr might have spoken seemed to vanish before it reached his lips. He simply sat there, absorbing Daeron’s words, letting them sink in. Slowly, deliberately, Valarr processed the weight behind them, poundering the expectation of the realm with the mere desires of his broken heart.
"As you wish, Your Grace," he solemny announced before pushing open the door and stepping with one foot outside the chamber when Daeron called him, forcing Valarr to turn again on his grandsire once more.
"I am a mourning man too, for me having lost my dear firstborn," the old king said, and for the first time Valarr heard some vulnerability in him, "I don’t know how much time the gods have granted me, but my last wish is to see you truly happy."
The two men stood for a long time, glazing at each other. Then, Valarr simply nodded, and with quick steps he vanished into the darkness of the towers' corridors.
Castle Driftmark lacked of the splendor High Tide had before its doom.
People from Hull remembered with nostalgic fondness of the walls built in pale stone, of the rich roots of beaten silver shining through the daylight, its rays dancing across the surface like moving water, of the Great Hall richily decorated by all the trinkets and treasure that the Sea Snake used to proudly expose after a long journey, giving prestige to the Driftwood Throne that would serve as a seat to the Lord of the Tides.
But the Dance brought fire and blood to his House and its close allies in both side, and with it came ruin that no waves could wash away. A wound that still lingered on Velaryon's pride, who reclaimed their ancestral seat without formal ceremonies.
You were used of the dark, salt-stained walls of your chambers, rich of that salsedine scent that made your guests leave in discomfort; yet, as you're used to remember, Velaryons belonged to the sea, and that scent was nothing but a simple reminder of your ancestral heritage.
You sat on the wooden table in the Great Hall with a book in your hands, listening to the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks. You carefully turned the pages describing the life and legacy of Lord Corlys Velaryon, whose name was synonimous with all the empire he built from the sea. Remarkable were his famous "nine voyages" beyond the known world with his Sea Snake, his fortunes carved from salt and storm and how his fleets had ruled the Narrow Sea with great ambition.
As you traced the carved letters of the paragraph about his marriage to Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, you heard the door open. You father announced himself with the same humility and quietness that had carried with him since your mother's loss. It was barely a decade when the titles of Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark fell on his shoulders, and he still held them with uneffortless grace.
Lord Velaryon took a seat next to you, smiling warmly. Your eyes caught an open parchment, but failed to see the broken sygil. "What news do Hull brings today, Father?" you asked with an inquisitive look, closing your book with a slow movement.
Your father glanced down at the parchment, his smile lingering something deeper you couldn't quite catch. "Not from Hull, my siren. From King's Landing."
Something inside you rose at the tip of your stomach, and a strange tension settled in your chest. Lord Velaryon leaned back slightly, the creak of his wooden chair echoing in the room.
"Am I expected to sail for the Crownlands soon?" You simply asked, trying to keep your voice steady despite the anxiety rising inside you. It wasn't the first time you were summoned at King Daeron's court, but each felt heavier at every parchment sent.
"No," Lord Velaryon said, his pale blue eyes resting on your tense figure. "Not this time. I have asked Mira to assist you in preparing for our guest. Prince Valarr Targaryen has expressed his wish to meet you here, on Driftmark, away from the court's prying eyes."
At first you said nothing, the words your father had spoken settled slowly in your mind, leaving you speechless. It had been so long since Castle Driftmark has hosted a valuable guest, most of the time a lord of a minor or almost forgotten House. Hosting a prince of the blood, a heir of a House that has crossed the sky with their impressive beasts… That was another matter.
Your father took your hand, squeezing it gently as a way to easy your discomfort. "Fear not, child. Our Houses have been tied since the beginning of the Conquest, we both share the same blood from Old Valyria. I highly doubt the Prince has forgotten the fidelty we show to his House during the Dance."
"It is not of this that I am afraid, Father." You said softly, lowering your gaze on the book resting on your lap.
"Then what troubles you, truly?"
You knitted your eyebrows together, nervously tearing your cuticles until they bled. A part of you wanted to downplay your concern, to say that it would pass soon. But the way your father noticed your hands with a somber look, covering them with his large palms, murmuring a gentle 'don't do this to you' helped your defences to go down.
"I am afraid," you started, "that the prince might not be the man people claim him to be.” You paused a bit, raising your gaze as you continued, "Tales grow in the telling, I know. They said that the prince is an honourable man, much like his father. What if the whispers prove to be wrong, father?"
Lord Velaryon casted an understanding glance on you, sighing softly. He felt how nervous you were and couldn't blame you: the weight of a marriage with the crown's heir was not a small thing to set on a girl's shoulders, however steady those had always proven to be.
"I had the honour to face Prince Baelor in a tournament, when I was closer to your age." He said solemnly, his pale blue gaze present but distant at the same time. "He unhorsed me on the second pass. Cleanly, with a precision and switftness that left me dazzled."
"You have already told me this story, Father."
"I know I did." He continued, unbothered by your interruption. "What I remember most is the Prince dismounting from his horse and helping me to my feet in front of the astonished realm. He looked me in the eyes and said that I had ridden well, and he meant it, with all the dignity he could show in that moment." Lord Velaryon paused, recollecting his thoughts before continuing. "He was a great man, the best heir I'd ever had the occasion to meet. I can promise you that Valarr Targaryen was raised by one of the finest men I ever had the privilege of being unhorsed by."
Your father leaned towards you closely, his thumbs affectionately rubbing your knuckles. "He has lost his father, and I'm sure he is still mourning him along with the king and the realm. If you allow him, you might be able to find comfort in each other."
You listened without interrupting, nodding slowly at your father as tears began to well up in your eyes. Even though it wasn't recent, your mother's death was still a wound fresh in your heart, a dull ache that you had learned to carry quietly. News of the terrible events in Ashford had reached Hull as well, and you remembered how upset and hurt you had been by the death of someone you had barely met years ago.
A comfortable silence settled between you, broken only by the sound of the waves outside. Your father's arms stretched out to you and engulfed your body in an embrace filled with love and warmth. This both calmed you and made you reflect: the gods may have taken your mother from you, but they had the decency to allow your loving father to stay.
"Go, now." Lord Velaryon murmured, breaking the embrace to look at you. "Change your clothes. If the wind holds, our guest arrives by late morrow." His gaze dropped to your hands, settling on your tortured fingers. "And have Mira clean those. There is no need to ruin such pretty hands."
You nodded again, a little smile forming on your face. "Yes, Father."
Standing with the book safely tugged in your chest, you left the Great Hall to reach your personal chambers, where Mira, a warm bath and a sea green dress were waiting for you.
It had been since dawn that the Targaryen's fleet has left the harbor of King's Landing under King Daeron's watchful eyes, and thank to the good gods' grace, the journey proceeded swiftly.
The sea was a perfectly flat, crystal-clear expanse; the only ripples were caused by the ships gliding across the water’s surface. A soft spring breeze blew through the black sails, proudly displaying the red three-headed dragon sigil against the cloudless blue sky.
Prince Valarr stood at the centre of the ship's bridge, his gaze fixed on the sky as he played with his father's ring. Still dressed in black and wearing Baelor's clothes, he tucked his dagger into his belt — a habit he had kept since returning from Ashford. Men were working around him in swift motion, and Ser Williem Wylde was watching him with hawk-like intensity, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Valarr's mismatched gaze was fixed on the sky, blue and empty as it had ever been. He had been born into a world already deprived of dragons; the consequences of the Dance of Dragons had robbed the Targaryens of the only thing that had elevated them to godlike status, prompting the small folk to whisper about how they used to be the masters of the sky.
He had grown up surrounded by the tapestries of the Red Keep, each one recounting the long history of his ancestors: from the Doom of Valyria and the Age of Conquest to the great reign of Jaehaerys I and the Dance of the Dragons.
When he asked his father why the dragons had disappeared, Baelor told him that his ancestors had lost their wisdom in a war for the crown. At the time, he was too young to understand what his father meant.
Now, as he was about to reach the dock of Hull after days of travelling and looking at the sky, picturing the shadows of dragons engulfing the entire fleet, he finally understood. And for the first time, he thought about how fascinating it would have been to ride a dragon.
The sun was high in the sky when Valarr finally set foot on dry land, taking a breath of relief. Hull wasn't as big and wealthy as King's Landing, but the simplicity and modesty of its people moved him in an unexpected way.
Upon arriving at the gloomy Castle Driftmark, Valarr and his men were greeted by a modest welcome party, far from the opulence he had read about in books regarding the former High Tide. At the forefront was Lord Velaryon, exuding his customary polite confidence, a thing Valarr noted and appreciated, as well as the few household knights and servants surrounding their ruler. The banners were few and modest, the sigil of House Velaryon standing proud without excess.
And then he saw you.
You stood with pride and graciousness a couple of feet behind your father, your hair combed into a modest braid with some curls falling down your neck. You were not dressed for spectacle, there were no extravagant jewels around your neck and no elaborate court gown designed to impress. Yet, the simplicity of your attire lit up your face, along with your flushed cheeks and sweet, timid smile.
You were beautiful, Valarr thought. You were blossomed since the last time he briefly saw you in court.
"Your Grace." Lord Velaryon said, respectfully bowing at him while the young prince dismounted from his horse. "Driftmark is honoured to welcome a Targaryen on its shores again."
Valarr took a step forward, his gaze softening despite his smile didn't reach his ears. "My lord," he retorted, shaking with firmness his hand. "It's a great honour to be received from you."
He then took another step towards you. His bicoloured eyes moved to your hands, noticing little spots of red circling your nails. He frowned but quickly composed himself, pushing every thought aside.
"My lady," he said softly, taking one of your hands and bringing it to his lips. You felt a tender brush against your knuckles, sending a jolt of electricity that stunned you. "I must admit I am delighted to see you again."
You eyes widened and your lips slightly parted, but no words came out. Yet, you quick regained your composure, and your usual bright smile returned to your face. "The pleasure is mine, my prince."
Neither of you could clearly remember what had happened between you: the only thing you recalled was your father kindly inviting Valarr inside, breaking that magical moment that had almost formed between you.
But while Valarr turned towards you again, he didn't smile.
The early afternoon was pleasantly warm and calm, the waves lapped gently against the shore, unlike the forceful winter waves. The wind was calm, occasionally blowing gently to remind you of its presence as it watched life unfold beneath it.
You and Valarr walked long the shore with a slow pace, both of you showing the first signs of nervousness and discomfort: Valarr was twirling Baelor's ring on his finger, too large for him but had categorically refused to resize it; you, on the other hand, had your finger on your teeth, worrying the already torn cuticle of your thumb with the absent, compulsive discomfort that had always accompanied you once you didn't know how to begin a conversation.
The modest banquet you had was not the grand welcome feast that suited a prince of the realm; yet, in its modesty it was somehow well received by Valarr. Having attended and hosted enough feasts and banquets in the Red Keep, he had undoubtedly become weary of opulence and abundance, you thought.
With the two men seated at opposite ends of the table, you heard for the upteenth time the story of how Baelor Targaryen unhorsed your father on a wedding tournament of a House you hardly recall its name, and how the young prince listened with interest while sipping wine from his goblet.. There a was a certain light in his eyes, a flick of pain that you recognized well: a part of you wished to stop your father and tell him how indelicate it was to bring back a memory of a father he had recently lost. Yet Valarr did nothing to stop him and welcomed the memory with a bittersweet fondness that sat quietly on his features.
Perhaps that was how Baelor Breakspear wanted to be remembered: not as an heir who died tragically in unfortunate circumstances, but as a courteous and chivalrous man, the best the realm could ever hope for.
A soft brush of a hand brought you back to reality, lifting you gaze suddenly. Valarr's palm was resting on the back of your hand and took your finger out of your mouth.
"Don't do this to you," he murmured, squeezing your hand briefly. You blinked and stared at him for a while as you walked from side to side, his hand never leaving yours.
"I…" you started, swallowing as you felt your throat suddenly go dry. "Forgive me. It is an old habit."
"I can see it." Valarr replied smoothly, his hand releasing yours. "Forgive me if my presence is troubling you."
You shook your head, and you swore you could hear your heart breaking a little. "It is not your presence, my lord." You murmured, giving him a reassuring smile. "It is what it is expected from me. From us. I'm afraid I am not the consort the court deserves."
The young prince looked at you, taking in your words carefully. "Why would you think such?"
"I have read from the records of my family how the court can be demanding." You retorted earnestly, gazing back at him. "It can either strengthen or break you, every move you make will always be under prying eyes. I have lived in Driftmark my whole life, and I'm afraid it will take so long for me to fit into this new role."
The words hung between you and Valarr, who couldn't find the right words to ease your doubts. Born as the heir's firstborn son, he knew only too well how nerve-wracking it could be to feel the weight of the role on his shoulder: he had been raised to be the perfect future king the realm expected him to become. Despite his father and grandfather never putting excessive pressure on him, he never had the luxury of choosing, and part of him always admired and envied Matarys' freedom, and how little the realm demanded of him.
"I cannot promise the court won't look at you with its inquisitive look," Valarr said, his gaze temporarily resting on his father's ring and then on you. "But I can promise you I will not put some expectations on you that will cause discomfort. You are to be my wife, and your well being is my main concern."
There was a raw modesty in the young prince's words that left you stunned for a bit, and in their own way, his words eased the nervousness that had accompanied you since your father announced his arrival at Castle Driftmark. Your mind had already prepared for the worst: you had heard stories about King Daeron's youngest grandsons and how they had proven that Targaryen princes could be mad or complicated — a constant headache for the royal and noble families alike.
Yet, what you father said was true: Valarr was raised by the finest man the Seven Kingdoms ever had, and under his veil of sadness you had felt a warmth from him that you hadn't expected.
"Your words truly flatter me, my lord." You whispered, smiling as you felt your cheeks turning red. "But you are not wrong to expect a perfect wife."
"It is better to have an honest ally than an unhappy foe at your side." Valarr retorted with seriousness. "I know we let the others choose for us, and that this marriage is not the love union we both wanted. But I hope we could find common interests that could bring us close."
'And affection may grow, if the gods are kind to us,' Valarr thought, lacking of courage to say it out loud. Instead, his gaze as he watched your shoulders relax and colour return to your face. It was as if the sun were shining brighter in the sky and he were lucky enough to be engulfed by your inner warmth.
And for a fleeting moment, it felt as if his grief had softened.
You both walked in silence for a while, watching how the waves engulfed the shore while words lingered around you. You cast a brief glance on the prince, and your heart ached at the sight of him trying to hold himself together while inside he was falling apart. You couldn't help but notice his tired eyes, the way the corner of his mouth always turned down in a frown and how he clasped his father's ring as if it were the only tangible memory he had left of him.
As you held your late mother's pendant, you understood his pain, and you promised that he wouldn't have to carry it alone.
You pointed to the horizon with your finger, indicating a ruined castle far from the shore. "See those ruins over there?" You broke the silence, and Valarr followed you, nodding silently. "Records from Driftmark said that two dragons used to dance there, enticing onlookers to gaze in wonder at the spectacle from the shore."
You turned towards Valarr, pleased to say you had his full attention. "Apparently, Vhagar and Caraxes crossed the Gullet and started their journey to Pentos. Prince Daemon and Lady Laena must have had quite the adventure."
"They left King's Landing because King Viserys wasn't pleased with their marriage," Valarr continued, picturing the silhouette of the dragons circling the ruined stones in his mind. "Grandsire used to tell us this story when we were little."
You saw his worn features softening a bit, and you felt somehow relieved. "I have always wondered how different the world would be if dragons were still alive. I would fly over the Crownlands and across the Lands of the North.'
"My apologies I cannot offer you the dragons you seek, my lady. However, there is a large tapestry room in the Red Keep that tells the history of House Targaryen. We could stay there and watch all the dragons you wish."
It was a simple offer, yet there was a hidden sweetness that took you by surprise. With your eyes shining, you gave him a bright smile in return.
"Tapestries don't fly like dragons," you pointed out quietly, "but I will gladly accept you offer, Your Grace."
"Valarr," he said with a startling tenderness. "If we are meant to be wed, I would like to drop formalities between us."
You turned back to the water, the warmth inside your chest settled around you like the tepid light of the late afternoon.
"Then, I will gladly accept your offer, Valarr." You said softly, correcting yourself.
And for the first time since Ashford, Valarr genuinely smiled again.
The days turned into weeks, and a peaceful routine settled around Valarr's permanence in Driftmark. His grandsire had been adamant with his advices — 'take your time to grow accustomed to each other, before the duties of the crown will put its thorns around you' — and Valarr had put them into practice correctly, delaying his departure to King's Landing until the time felt right.
Time: that was a luxury that had lacked to him since the day the dreadful news had been brought to him. Since that, his life had taken an unexpected turn, and before he could ever blink his eyes properly, he found himself heir to the Throne and the King's right-hand man without the proper preparation, both intellectual and emotional.
He had wondered whether he should return once the marriage agreement had been finalised, given that he was the King's Hand and his presence was undoubtedly required at the small council. Again, the words of his grandsire echoed in his mind — 'The realm can spare its Hand for a few weeks.'
And he chose to stay.
Driftmark seemed to grant him a new lease of life: its castle appeared less gloomy each day that passed, and the sea air and salt were no longer so bothersome. Each member of servitude treated the young prince in the same way they had welcomed him a few days prior, with that same quietness and humility that undoubtly touched his heart, teaching him to appreciate the smallest acts of gentleness from the members of the court, and never take them granted.
Lord Velaryon, who appeared older than Daeron had described him, was a man with a keen sense of hospitality: he would bring the young prince with him outside in the morrow, fishing or sailing short distances along the coast, talking about his youthful adventures while discussing the matters regarding his daughter's marriage. It was a man the young prince grew to expect and admire, a good landlord who knew how to lay down the law when necessary.
And then there was you, the light that was conquering his neverending darkness.
Valarr couldn't tell what kind of spell you had cast on him, for him being drawn by your sunny nature and natural charm like Icarus to the sun. You would tell him stories about your House and the great names that had shaped the history of Driftmark and the seas beyond it, speaking with the same emotion and intensity of a child looking at a delicious plate of lemon cakes. In return, Valarr would tell you about the Conquest and the dragons, with a precision and care as if wanting to understand that many Targaryen had been touched by madness from birth.
And when there were days that he would grow quiet, waking up and screaming after dreaming about his father smiling at him while wearing his son's armour, blood dripping from the smashed gorget of his helm, you would just sit with him in religious silence, often singing for him or just holding his head, telling him a story coming from one of the books of your small library in the east hall. And for that, Valarr was profoundly grateful to you.
Affection was indeed growing between you two, along with something more you couldn't quite give a name yet.
One day, you decided to ride towards the southside of Driftmark, reaching what remained of High Tide and of its Ironwood Throne, passing through Spicetown.
All that remained was a heap of ruins, the Dance wiping out everything under its merciless fire. The great towers that Corlys Velaryon had built using the wealth from his eastern voyages had been reduced to ashes and ruins, but the remains stood proudly, despite their condition. The pale, sea-scoured stones had dramatically darkened, taking on a sulphurous hue. The Great Hall, which had displayed all kinds of treasures, maps and conquests, was now nothing but piles of half-standing walls and columns and a cold stone floor. The once-imposing Driftwood Throne was now nothing but charred wood scattered by the wind, the heart of the Velaryon power was nothing but a distant memory.
You had been here a hundred times. Valarr was seeing it for the first time.
"My mother used to bring me there, when she had enough strenght to bear horse riding." You said in the late afternoon, the two of you sat on the beach, under the wooden remnants of one of the Sea Snakes' deceased fleet. "She said she loved it here, albeit the ruins made her melancholic. She would sit exactly where we are now and tell me about the latest records she had read, concerning the fine spices and precious silks Lord Corlys imported from Yi Ti. and how much she wished she had have lived in that era, so she could have witnessed all this splendour."
You paused, running your fingers towards your mother's pendant, the light in your eyes fading slowly. Valarr held his breath for a moment, feeling lost for words and as if he had been stabbed in the heart: it was rare for him to see you so vulnerable beneath your happy and confident mask.
"The maesters could not find alogical explanation for why her health was deteriorating with each passing moon." you continued, your quiet voice trembling for a bit, "she was born fragile, she had always been, but somehow she found herself… joyful, with her short life."
You sighed, a small tear running down your cheek. Valarr fought the urge to reach out and wipe it away, afraid that even the slightest touch might be inappropriate.
"She would have liked you." You continued, your voice steadier than before. "She had always been inclined towards incorruptible nobles, standing for those who embody the values of a true king and warrior. I am sure you would have won her approval within the first evening here."
Something inside Valarr shifted, a wave of doubt washing over him. He shouldn't feel in this way, you were doing nothing but praise him and let him link with your late mother, but somehow you stunned and hurt him into the core. With his head low, the young prince clasped his hands together so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He had never considered himself like a prince who embodies the values of the perfect King and warrior: that was his father's, the same father whom he believed he had indirectly killed in Ashford when he allowed him to wear his armour for that illogical trial.
'It is him you should admire, not a fraud prince like me.'
"He died at my hands," Valarr said, breaking the silence suddenly. His gaze drifted to the horizon while you looked at him, noticing how hard he was trying to hold himself together. "The small folk whisper that the blow with the mace was deliberate, that Prince Maekar did it to outshine his valiant brother and stepping away from his shadow. The fools fail to whisper that it was his son's armour that failed to protect him."
He lowered his head, shaking it, his eyes shining with unshed tears as his body convulsed with the effort of containing a guilt that had been bottled up for too long.
"I should have stopped him." his voice fractured as he spoke, revealing a vision you weren't prepared for. "The trial, he… He should not have joined it. All because of a hedge knight who dared to hurt a prince of the blood. My father never met him until Ashford, but he rekindled his interest in some ways." He paused for a moment, breathing slowly. "Would I had been more persuasive that day, the Seven Kingdoms would still have its finest heir and I-" his voice broke entirely on the last word, and the tears he had held back all this time finally flowed, "I would still have my father."
A heavy silence fell upon you, the sea was the only answer needed in that moment. You hesitated, your mouth slightly parted as your mind raced through the many thoughts rushing through it. Yet, every word failed to reach your mouth and no sound came out.
You were rarely at a loss for words; your silver tongue had always helped you overcome different situations, even when your mother died. You remember watching your father become uncomfortable in a way you had never seen in such an overjoyed man. During your mother's funeral several years ago, as you watched the waves engulf her grave, you took your father's hand and squeezed it, and at the height of your grief, you gave him a warm smile, tears in your eyes.
'Mother would be displeased to see us cry over her burial like this. You know how she hated this kind of fuss.' you muttered, and he was so surprised by your witty response that he let out a little chuckle.
You knew how devastating grief could be, consuming your soul with an overwhelming array of emotions that you initially couldn't control. You could feel the same force slowly consuming Valarr, day by day, until nothing would be left but an empty shell. If you could, you would try to save him.
"He died doing the most chivalrous thing a prince could ever do to his realm." You said with a quiet voice, your hand naturally stretched towards his. Valarr's gaze followed your hand, his breath hitching at the soft contact against his flesh. Despite this, he didn't retract his hand.
"He stood up for a man who just act like a true knight should. He protected an innocent, stood alone against people who care less about a life that holds no lands or titles. He did what most noble men refused to do, and allow me to say that it's a rare thing."
You pronounced the last words proudly, smiling, hoping that your sincere admiration towards Baelor's figure would soothe him. But no smile appeared on Valarr's face, the young prince's eyes remained fixed on your hand touching his. A defeated sigh escaped his lips, and he swallowed the lump in his throat before lifting his gaze again.
"The darkest part of me wished that hedge knight had lost his head and foot for his offence towards my family." Valarr said, his tone bitter but not unkind. He was giving voice to a thought that had been torturing him ever since Ser Duncan apologised to him. He felt shame rise in his stomach and sensed an inquisitive gaze upon him — his father, he thought, watching him alongside the Seven. "It took me long enough to spare him my anger, he was just a knight who wished to prove himself and hope that some lord might take him in service. I’m ashamed to have felt so much hatred towards him."
"Why do you think such?" you tilted your head, softening your tone. "It was the grief talking to you, Valarr. Were I in your shoes, watching the man that raised me and admire more than any other figure in the realm's history fall tragically, I would feel a fury that would wipe the Seven Kingdoms off any map of this world."
Your words had cut deeper than intended, and you could feel Valarr stiffen under your touch. You were speechless for a moment, biting your lower lip and cursing your honest tongue and impulsive mind.
Then you saw him lower his head and hold back tears: the sight stirred something protective inside you, awakening an instinct stronger than your gentle nature. It was a feeling you couldn't name, but it urged you to move closer to him.
And so you did, stepping forward slowly, as if you were approaching a frightened animal. Your shoulder brushed against his, relieved that the prince didn't reject you. Then, you took his hand with your other one, engulfing it in your care and warmth; Valarr's fingers were tense at first, unmoving, as if he was unsure whether he deserved your compassion.
"I remembered how lost I was, when my own mother died." you confessed, your voice low, softened by memory. "I did not know where to place all that grief, if I may be honest. It felt too vast for me, like it would let the whole Seven Kingdoms fall into an endless, dark night. But time and love can heal even the deepest of wounds, and once I allowed the people close to me to share my grief, it became more bearable." A light chuckle interrupted you, and you briefly shook your head before continuing. "It still hurts sometimes, but more like a dull ache than a gnawing vice."
You leaned close to him, your eyes boring into his. "You do not have to pretend with me, as we are to be soon a husband and a wife. Allow me to carry this burned with you, Valarr. Do not let this darkness drive you away from me."
As silence fell again, Valarr noticed how natural it felt to be by your side and how relieving it was to be understood. Your presence was not as inquisitive as the members of the small council, nor you looked at him with the same pity as the King or the members of the servitude and small folk: you simply stood in own place, stepping into his life like a glimmer of light in a cold, dark room. Since childhood, Valarr remembered that timid gaze watching the world unfolding with tender curiosity: those same eyes were now resting on him, with that steady, loving look that made his heart squeeze suspiciously in his chest.
His fingers, once rigid and unmoving, curled under your palm and entangled yours in a timid, delicate hold. And when he lifted his gaze, red and puffy with his tears, he truly realized how ungodly pretty you were in the evening sunlight: your silver curls, wild and untamed by the wind, those pale blue eyes who shone like the crystal- clear Narrow Sea, those delightful cheeks that turned red every time he was around you and your smile, that sweet and merry smile, which still carried the same quite innocence it had since you were a child.
While on the ship, Valarr thought about how unhappy his marriage would have been, and how scared you would feel in his presence. He promised himself he would be the man that Baelor had raised with great care and discipline, and that he would honour and respect as any man with strong principles would. But the truth was far from what he had imagined: it was you who took care of him, and for the first time since grief took root in his heart, he didn't feel alone.
As his father had foretold, love was blossoming like a rare, beautiful flower.
The air turned crisp, the marine breeze enveloping you with a chill that wasn't annoying. At first, none of you dared to speak, Valarr's thumb brushing your knuckles with such care he was afraid you would disappear in front of him.
The young prince stretched a free hand towards you, marveling at how warm and soft you cheek was at your touch, as if he was brushing his palm against the finest silk. Then, as if pulled by an ancient force, he slowly leaned close to you, breaths mingling as you lips crashed into a deep, urgent kiss.
At first, you froze, feeling a chill run down your spine as your muscles tensed at the sudden intimacy. The kiss felt desperate, and you could taste in him the sweetness of the Arbor Red alongside his salty tears. However, it was intense enough to cloud your judgement and silence all your doubts.
You moved your hands up to the collar of his doublet and curled your fingers around the hem while pushing him closer, prolonging a kiss that was about to end. Valarr was surprised, and unexpectedly moaned against your mouth at the sudden closeness. He raised his trembling hands, which hesitated next to your waist before finding it, his grip was gentle at first, but it soon tightened without bruising you.
For a fleeting moment, the world around you faded slowly, along with the burden of the crown and the oaths made in form of political marriage and alliance between two old Houses. For now it was just both of you, two souls who find each other with grief and turned their pain in something noble, in a love that could burn brighter than wildfire.
The kiss turned into something soft, until it eventually broke as his forehead brushed yours gently, struggling to steady his breath for a moment. His eyes, still bright with unshed tears, were brighter than the day he arrived at Driftmark, as if a new spark crossed his bicoloured orbs.
"Valarr." You whispered, struggling to steady your own breath as well. "Forgive me, we should not-"
"I know." He shot back urgently, his voice full of vulnerability, and his grip on your waist tightened. "I just… I need you to be close to me. I will succumb to madness if I have to wait our wedding night."
You were ready to retort, but the honesty and fragility of his words weighted heavily on your chest. You realised that it wasn't just love talking to him; it was loneliness and the need to have someone real and close to fulfil his raw desire to protect and cherish the ones he loved most, without being afraid of losing them.
'Please,' Valarr pleaded, his hands squeezing yours and raised to the level of his mouth. He left lingering kisses on your soft skin, starting from your knuckles and lowering to your wrists. 'I need to feel this. I need to feel you."
His plead was enough to let your resolve finally falter.
And as you stood on tiptoe, you kissed him.
The moon was high in the sky when you woke up.
Your vision was blurred as you tried to adjust to the pale moonlight suspended in the starry sky above, the light chill breeze gave you little goosebumps. Once your eyes had adjusted, you became slowly aware of your surroundings: curved wooden planks shaped like a ship, rose up towards the sky in which you could still make out faint traces of paint on some of them. You raised your hand and noticed grains of salt slipping from your palm, sticking to your slightly wrinkled sleeve.
You steadied yourself on your elbows as you stood in a sitting position. You looked far from the composed lady you were on the morrow: your curls were loose and messy, damp and full of grains of salt, and your gown was wrinkled to the corset, one of the sleeves was so low that left one of your shoulders bare.
Placed on your lap there was a pitch-black coat, the only thing that could shield you from the cold evening. When a shining pin caught you attention — a silver circular pin with three dragon heads looking at the same direction — your mind finally rushed back to the moment that let you so exposed and vulnerable, fragments of memories surfacing in disjointing flashes.
You remembered how Valarr had kissed you the second time, starting slowly and lingeringly before exploding into a heated, passionate embrace. His arms held you close at the waist while you felt his lips curl softly, the tip of his tongue tentatively demanding to explore your mouth. Your fingers traced the nape of his neck, urging his body closer to yours as you complied, tongues brushing together in a timid dance.
You remembered how Valarr had gently lain down on the sand, his mismatched eyes shining at the sight of you beneath him. Your pale curls were scattered across the sand as he began to assault your collarbone, kissing and nibbling it as though he were starving, careful not to leave any trace of your lustful encounter. You were glad you were alone together, surrounded by nothing but the vastness of the High Tide ruins: you wouldn't have to explain your loud moans and whimpers or Valarr's exasperated groans every time you softly pulled his short hair, crushing your lips together in another heated kiss and gently nibbling his lower lip.
You remembered how his unexperienced hands mapped every curves of your body, and how his head disappeared under your underskirt — Valarr had told you softly how unappropriate would have been to him to left you undressed in the middle of the wildness — his lips brushing against your inner tight and linger deeply in your core, your back arching at the feeling of the pleasure warming your stomach, his tongue tentatively tasting you, until his confidence was enough to devour you and force you to come in his mouth.
You remembered how his own clothed body pressed urgently against yours, breaking the oath he had made to himself the moment his length slipped inside you with all his inexperience: despite having promised himself to you, you were still a maiden, and he had silently vowed to leave you as untouched as possible, which was soon broke the moment he felt the deliciously sweet taste of you on his tongue.
His trembling body struggled not to collapse on top of you, overwhelmed by your warmth sorrounding him. You felt a sharp burn stretching your velvet walls, an unpleasant feeling that turned into a bearable stretch as soon as your bodies moved in unison, the movements hurried and unpracticed until you followed a fluid motion, the sound of the waves reaching the shore mingling with your grunts and moans, desperately chasing your pleasure as you both whispered apologies to the Seven for what you were doing.
And when you both came quickly and intensely, Valarr held you close while he spilled inside you, kissing the crown of your head while his body still convulsed, whispering how the gods had been benevolent to send someone like you to him.
You turned your head around, searching for Valarr's figure in the dim light, heart tightened in your chest as you realised you were alone on the shore.
When you finally spotted a dark figure standing barefoot in the water, a quite sense of relief settled in your chest. You stood up and tried to look as much composed as possible — you tried to brush off your hair and gown — before making a few steps towards him with his coat safely resting on your shoulders.
Valarr had his pensive look towards the vastness of the dark horizon, his doublet slightly unbuttoned and exposing the hem of his white linen shirt. His hair were messily moved by the wind, the white streak more prominent and enlightened by the moonlight. His posture was loose, though his face was darkened by the many thoughts crossed on his mind.
A hand drifted to his chest, pressing lightly against his beating heart. Recognizing it as yours, he turned his head towards you, and the smile he gave was small, tired but full of warmth, as if he was finally happy and satisfied.
"How unchivalrous of you to leave a helpless lady to sleep beneath the wreckage of a ship, Your Grace." You teased him with a smirk, your chin resting on his shoulder. Valarr let out a chuckle — a real one, unlike the hollow, practiced ones he had worn at court.
"My apologize, my lady wife." He countered, feigning sorrow, "I thought it would be gallant of me to let you rest."
"It was your absence that woke me up." You said with raw honesty, watching the horizon stretching in front of you. The sea was calm when it reached the shores, wetting the hem of your gown.
"What troubles your mind?" you asked, and Valarr didn't give you an answer at first. He gazed at the horizon while his fingers shifted beneath yours, seeking warmth and reassurance.
"The realm." He simply admitted, sighing softly. "As a Hand, I expected to rejoice with the King and manage the burdens of the Seven Kingdoms. And then it comes the crown…" His voice faltered for a bit before continuing. "My father would have known perfectly how to handle the pressure of the realm."
His hand squeezed yours, a gesture you returned once you felt his nervousness building up.
"I am not perfect like him." Valarr confessed, lowering his voice slightly as to express his discomfort. "He was everything the realm required from an heir, and I still feel anything but."
His vulnerability tightened something in your chest, and for a moment you were at loss of words, the wind talking of your behalf as he blew gently between you.
"You are Valarr Targaryen." You finally said, your lips brushing against his cheek. "And the realm has never demanded you to be like Baelor. Your father will be remembered with fondness and nostalgia, but wha the Iron Throne needs is the light of the future, not the shadow of the past."
You tightened your fingers around him, giving him an encouraging smile as his gaze fell upon you. "I am about to become your wife, and your burdens will be mine as well. I will help you carry the weight of the crown once it will be too heavy for you to bear, to rejoice with you in your defeats and celebrate your victories. You don't need to be the perfect dragon the realm seek. Be the gentle, tiepid flame, and the people will give you the right gratitude and recognition with time."
Valarr didn't look away as he carefully absorbed your words, feeling so inspired that he finally thought he had found a new purpose. Since the events in Ashford Valarr had always relied on Baelor's ghost, striving to embody the ideal of the perfect heir that his father had cultivated through years of study and training. This standard was so unattainable that it had started to feel less like guidance and more like a burden.
But the realm didn't need a flawless sovereign; it needed someone who could allow themselves to falter and stand still, and be humble enough to recognize his flaws and be mature enough to admit the mistakes.
With a silent nod, Valarr looked at the darkening sea on the horizon. His heart was frightened to face the uncertain future stretching beneath him, but for the first time, the fear did not chain him. It steadied him, like the tide that retreats only to return stronger.
When the young prince's time would come, and Daeron the Good would draw his last breath, he would wear a crown his father had never lived to wear it, forged not in grief and in lost, but in the strength and will of a man who learned to endure the hardship of a throne cut like steel.
And when the time would come, his faithful queen would be steadily at his side.
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