A Marriage Not Meant to Be
Valarr Targaryen x female reader
Sinopsis: A noble daughter faces a cruel fate as her father considers marrying her to one of her own brothers. Trapped between duty and fear, she finds unexpected solace in Prince Valarr, whose quiet devotion challenges everything she has been taught to accept.
Warnings: Family conflict and emotional abuse, Threats of non-consensual situations (non-graphic), Canon-typical misogyny and power dynamics
WC: 6,400 words approx.
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The importance of your surname had always weighed on you. You felt it in the way people lowered their gaze when you passed, in how the servants whispered your name before bowing. You knew your father would seek an alliance through your marriage—every lord did. That was what the old nursemaids said as they brushed your hair at night. He spent much of the year searching for a suitable match, meeting with lords in his council chamber, studying parchments filled with family trees.
And then it came up.
"Perhaps it would be best for you to marry Daeron or Aerion," Maekar said one afternoon as he drank wine by the hearth. The fire crackled behind him, casting dancing shadows along the stone walls.
You lifted your gaze from the embroidery in your hands. The needle halted midway through the fabric. Of course—they were your brothers. But one of them was practically a drunkard who slipped into brothels every time he visited King’s Landing. Even if your father covered your eyes when Aerion passed by, even if he shut doors and changed the subject, you found out what that meant. You learned what happened when men went there. You knew from the maids whispering in the kitchens, from the looks exchanged by the guards. You knew why the women in the streets wore such lovely yet strange garments—bright silks that shimmered like butterfly wings beneath the sun.
And then there was Aerion.
Aerion, who constantly shoved you against the corridor walls. “Fool,” he would say, his hot breath close to your ear. “Useless. Your role will never be anything more than that of a woman who marries and bears children. What do you think you know of the world?”
You clenched your fists, feeling anger crawl up your throat like a caged animal. How did you know so much? Because you watched. Because you listened. But you never fought back. You had seen him strike servant women more than once. The sound of the blow—sharp, like a branch snapping. The sobs that followed, muffled against the stone floor.
He never touched you. If there was one thing the three brothers knew, it was that your father loved you as much as them. But you were his little princess. The girl who sat on his lap while he told stories of dragons. The one who ran to greet him when he returned from hunting.
But now, knowing there was a possibility you might become Aerion’s wife… A chill ran down your spine. If he were your husband, he could do to you everything he had never been able to as your brother. The mere thought made your bones tremble. You let the embroidery fall onto your lap, your mind returning to the present.
“With Aerion?” Valarr asked quietly.
You were preparing for the journey to Ashford. In the castle courtyard, horses pranced over the stones, their hooves striking impatiently. Stable boys tightened girths while the evening wind stirred the banners.
“He hasn’t decided between Daeron and Aerion yet,” you whispered, adjusting the folds of your riding dress. “Either option will be hell itself, Valarr.”
You glanced toward where your father stood with Prince Baelor. They spoke beside the courtyard fountain, their deep voices blending with the murmur of water. Baelor nodded at something Maekar said, and for a moment, the setting sun illuminated your father’s silver hair.
If there was anyone you could trust besides your little brother Aegon, it was Valarr. He might not have been your blood brother, but he behaved better than your own. When he looked at you, his eyes held none of the coldness you saw in Aerion. There was no mockery in his smile.
“We are ready,” Prince Baelor said as he approached. He smelled of leather and horse, as he always did before a journey. “Daughter, please—your horse will be the white one. Valarr said it is your favorite.”
You nodded, and for the first time that afternoon, a small smile touched your lips. The white horse waited by the gate, flicking its tail patiently. You approached and rested your cheek against its warm neck for a moment, breathing in the scent of hay and sweat.
You mounted with the help of a squire. The leather of the saddle creaked beneath your weight. Slowly, they began to move. Hooves against the road kicked up dust the wind carried into the fields.
Valarr brought his horse alongside yours. You often traveled to Dragonstone to accompany your father, as he was part of the court. That meant you spent more time there. Sometimes with Aegon, who ran through the halls like a little goat. Other times alone, wandering the hanging gardens while the sea crashed against the cliffs below.
All your brothers remained at Gulltown, where your father’s castle stood. The reason was secret, but you knew it well: you always asked to go with him, and he always agreed. His little girl. How could he not?
The road stretched before you, lined with ancient oaks whose leaves whispered secrets to the wind.
Days passed before reaching Ashford. They camped at dusk, when the sun sank behind the hills and the air turned cool. They slept with little discomfort. Then rode again at dawn, when the mist still clung to the valleys like a gray mantle.
At night, by the fire, you felt Valarr’s eyes on you. When you looked up, he quickly turned his gaze elsewhere—toward the flames, the starry sky, anywhere but you. But you caught the blush rising along his neck, a warmth even the shadows could not hide.
One morning, as the horses walked along a path lined with poplars, you turned to him. The air smelled of damp earth and wild rosemary.
“My father said that when we return, they’ll finalize your alliance with Kiera of Tyrosh,” you said without slowing your horse.
Valarr nodded, but took a moment to answer. Too long. As if your words had to pass through a thick fog before reaching him. The morning sun lit half his face, bringing out the blue of one eye while leaving the brown of the other in shadow.
“Yes. Well… my father said we will wait a month so you can get to know her better,” he replied. But as he spoke, he wasn’t looking at the road. He was looking at you.
You didn’t notice. You were distracted, watching clouds gather to the east.
“She’ll have a good man by her side. I’m sure she’ll see how fortunate she is,” you said sincerely, a sigh slipping from your lips. Because it was true. Valarr was good. The kind who held doors, remembered servants’ names, looked people in the eye when he spoke.
“I… I’m not sure about…” Valarr stopped, looking at you. There was something in his eyes you couldn’t name. “The alliance with her,” he finished.
You widened your eyes in surprise.
“Can it be that the heir doubts fulfilling his duties because of someone else?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.
He smiled. For a moment, the seriousness that always surrounded him vanished like morning mist. His shoulders relaxed, and even his horse seemed to notice, flicking its ears back.
“I want to marry for love, not alliance,” he admitted again, but this time his voice held a different tone. As if confessing something forbidden. His eyes lingered on you a moment too long before returning to the road.
“Well, that’s something we cannot do,” you said, looking ahead. There, Aerion was bothering a soldier walking beside the horses, tugging at his cloak, laughing that laugh of his that always sounded like mockery. The soldier lowered his head, enduring in silence. You shook your head. But you weren’t really seeing Aerion. You were seeing Valarr’s eyes. You kept seeing them even when you looked away.
Valarr watched you from the corner of his eye. The wind loosened strands of your braid. He followed them with his gaze, hypnotized, as though momentarily lost in something beyond the landscape.
“If you could choose who to marry, who would it be?” he asked.
Your heart lurched. You gripped the reins tightly. The leather pressed into your palms. You felt the warmth of the horse beneath you, its steady breathing. You kept looking forward, but inside, something shifted. Something warm and frightened all at once.
You thought of him. You thought of Valarr. His hands, the way he laughed softly when something amused him, how he stepped in front of you when Aerion came too close, how he always found an excuse to ride beside you.
Valarr held his breath without realizing it. He waited. His whole body waited, though his face feigned calm.
“Choose? If I could…” you thought. You saw his face. Only his face.
“Damn it!”
Your father’s voice thundered from behind. Everyone stopped. The horses neighed, restless.
“They’re gone. Daeron and Aegon are gone,” Maekar said. His face was red, the veins in his neck standing out like cords. His gaze flicked from you to Aerion, who hadn’t even stopped laughing at his own amusement.
You looked around. Searched among soldiers, pack horses, the mules carrying tents. You urged your horse forward for a better view, Valarr following close behind. There was no trace of them. Only dust, only trees, only the empty road behind.
Your father exploded. He cursed his sons, cursed the day they were born, cursed the Seven and his own blood. Prince Baelor tried to calm him, placing a hand on his shoulder, suggesting men be sent to find them, saying that being near Ashford, they were likely in nearby villages.
You scoffed, air rushing from you.
“Incredible. The idiot with two crumbs of decency just ran off,” you said, watching Aerion carry on as if nothing mattered, now bored of tormenting the soldier, stretching lazily in his saddle like a cat.
Valarr gave you a crooked smile—that smile of his that barely lifted one corner of his mouth, that said everything without words.
“Darling, don’t wander off!” Maekar called, riding up to you. His horse snorted, agitated from the gallop. Your father’s hair was loose and disheveled, his cheeks flushed.
“Stay with Aerion, and don’t leave Prince Valarr’s side either,” he ordered, gesturing toward them with his chin. “If I lose another child, I’ll lose what little sanity I have left.”
You nodded silently. Your father looked at you for a moment, and in his eyes you saw something familiar: fear. Fear of losing you too.
Then he turned his horse and rode off toward where Baelor was organizing the men.
You remained still for a moment, feeling your heartbeat. Then you guided your horse beside Aerion’s—he didn’t even look at you. Valarr positioned himself on your other side, forming a silent barrier between you and the road. And so you rode on.
Your arrival at Ashford was nothing but practiced smiles, good posture, perfectly timed bows. Lords and ladies gathered in the courtyard like colorful flowers, each wanting to be seen, to be remembered. Your father walked among them, chin high, perhaps choosing an alliance while his eyes endlessly searched for Daeron and Aegon. Prince Baelor spoke with Lord Ashford by the fountain, their voices lost in the water’s murmur.
You watched Valarr from across the courtyard. He wore his armor, silver gleaming beneath the afternoon sun, and when your eyes met, he gave you a small smile—one only you knew. You quickly looked away—toward your father, toward the ground, anywhere. But the smile lingered inside you, warm as an ember.
The third night fell over Ashford. The sky turned orange and violet, torches lighting one by one, filling the halls with dancing shadows. In the great hall, lords drank wine by the fire while servants cleared the remains of dinner.
“The filthy rat ran off just like what he is,” Aerion repeated from his seat, looking at you with those eyes that always seemed to measure you. He cracked nuts with his fingers, tossing shells to the floor. “A disgrace, isn’t it? If you want me to comfort you, little sister, I can.”
His dirty hand rested on your hair, stroking it like you were a dog. Disgust rose in your throat like bitter bile.
“You’re disgusting,” you whispered, shoving his hand away. Your voice trembled—not from fear, but rage.
Aerion smiled. That smile that always froze the blood.
“I doubt what I have between my legs will seem disgusting to you when I put it inside you.”
You looked at him with all the revulsion you could muster. Words stuck in your throat, heavy as stones. You wanted to spit at him, claw that smile off his face, cry—but you wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
“Say one more thing and I’ll tell my father,” you said at last, your voice firmer than you felt.
He laughed, hollow and joyless.
“Even so. If that idiot Daeron doesn’t show up, you’ll become my wife. Better start getting used to it.”
The world stilled. The fire crackled somewhere distant, the lords’ laughter sounded far away. His wife. His hands on you. His breath on your face every night. It felt as though the ground opened beneath your feet.
“Cousin!”
Valarr’s voice cut through the air like a blade. You exhaled so deeply it hurt. You turned, and there he was, standing by the doorway, his red cloak draped perfectly, an expression you couldn’t quite read. But his eyes… his eyes looked at Aerion like one looks at vermin.
“Your father agreed I could accompany you to the village with some soldiers,” he said. Though he spoke to you, he didn’t take his eyes off Aerion.
You smiled—a real one, the kind few ever saw.
“Is it necessary to go with soldiers?” Aerion cut in, rising lazily, playing with his dagger, cracking another nut. “Imagine if you were killed, cousin. Considering you don’t know how to fight since your opponents are practically old men… young opponents—shall we call it fear?”
Valarr clenched his jaw. You saw the muscle tighten, his hands curl into fists. You knew how hard it was for him to lose control, how he bit his tongue when provoked. But you also knew what Aerion did to those who defied him.
You stepped in front of Valarr, cutting the tension between them. You smiled at Aerion with all the falseness you could muster.
“Come. There are fragrant plants, Lord Ashford said,” you said, leaving the hall. Your legs trembled, but you didn’t stop.
Valarr cast one last long look at Aerion before following you.
The path to the village was short. Soldiers walked behind, their steps steady on the dry earth. The air smelled of hay and wildflowers, and the first stars began to appear in the violet sky.
That was when it happened. Perhaps neither of you saw it coming—or perhaps it was only a matter of time.
Valarr held the plants you gathered, smiling. His hands were full of stems and leaves, yet he never complained. The soldiers lingered a few steps behind, giving you space among the bushes.
How did it happen?
Perhaps it was when you placed a flower behind his ear with a small smile—a tiny yellow one, ridiculous against his dark hair. He froze, looking at you, and for an instant, the entire world narrowed to his eyes.
If your little brother Aegon had been there, he would have been running through the plants, laughing, hands full of dirt. But Valarr’s presence felt different. Warmer. More dangerous. You felt safe, yes—but also as if you stood at the edge of a cliff.
Valarr set the bag of plants on the ground. He looked around, and when he spotted a large, beautiful lilac flower, he approached it slowly. He plucked it carefully, as though it were fragile—valuable.
He turned to you.
He raised his hand and tucked the flower behind your ear, brushing aside your blonde hair with a gentleness that stole your breath. His skin grazed yours. Warmth. A shiver ran through you.
Yes. It was there.
His hand lingered, adjusting the flower, before slowly sliding down to your cheek. His palm, warm and rough, rested against your skin as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Your breath caught.
The closeness made you remember how often you dreamed of Valarr when you returned home. Nights in your chamber in Gulltown, staring at the ceiling, imagining his hands, his eyes, his mouth. Mornings when you woke with his name on your lips and had to bite your pillow to keep from crying it out.
Your body tensed as his face drew closer. But you didn’t pull away. You wouldn’t.
It just happened.
His lips touched yours. Soft, warm, trembling. Your hands rose to his chest—not to push him away, but to pull him closer. You felt his heart racing beneath your fingers, like a frightened bird. His hand at your waist tightened, drawing you nearer.
You stepped back unconsciously and hit the trunk of a tree. The bark scraped your back through your dress, but you didn’t care.
He pulled away. Just a little. Just enough to look at you.
Both of you were flushed. Both of you were close—so close your breaths mingled, quick, warm, alive.
And then it was you who leaned in. You who kissed him again.
You pressed closer. The kiss turned urgent, hungry, as though you had been waiting for it for years. His hands at your waist held you, anchored you. Yours tangled at his neck, his nape, his hair.
“Prince?”
The soldier’s voice dropped like a stone into still water.
“Princess?”
You pulled apart so quickly you nearly lost your balance. You turned, pretending to gather another plant, another flower—anything. Your hands trembled. Your lips burned.
Valarr licked his lips slowly, as if wanting to keep the taste. He exhaled deeply before speaking.
“We’re coming,” he said. His voice sounded rough, unfamiliar.
The soldier nodded and turned, waiting by the others.
You lingered among the plants a moment longer, looking at the lilac flower still tucked behind your ear. You touched it with your fingertips. It was there. It had happened.
Valarr picked up the bag. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t speak.
And that was when everything worsened.
The question Valarr had asked days before echoed in your mind. If you could choose who to marry. If you could choose.
If your father hadn’t interrupted that morning on the road, you would have said his name.
Valarr.
When you returned to the castle, chaos greeted you like a wave. Servants rushed from one side to the other with lit torches, even though it was not yet fully dark. Guards stood in clusters along the corridors, their deep voices echoing against the stone walls. The air smelled of sweat and fear.
"They found Aegon," some said.
"And Daeron," others added.
You climbed the stairs almost without breathing, lifting the skirts of your dress so as not to trip. Valarr’s footsteps echoed behind you, but you didn’t turn to look at him. You couldn’t. If you did, you would remember the tree, the lilac flower, his lips.
At the top of the stairs, a small figure ran toward you.
"Aegon."
Your little brother threw himself into your arms with such force you nearly fell backward. He was crying. His little face was red and wet, his shoulders trembling as if he were cold, even though the night was warm.
"By the gods, Aegon, how I missed you," you said with a smile, holding him tightly. His scent—childlike, of earth and sweat—filled your senses. You had him. He was safe.
But he didn’t smile. He didn’t pull away to look at you with joy. He only cried, cried against your chest.
"No, sister. It’s my fault," he finally said, his voice barely coming out.
Valarr stepped closer, and you saw his brow furrow with concern. He placed a gentle hand on Aegon’s shoulder, as if afraid to break him.
"What happened? Tell me," you whispered, brushing the damp hair from his forehead.
And Aegon told you.
He told everything, between sobs and stumbling words. He spoke of a large man, one called Duncan, a squire or something like that, who had helped him when some boys were bothering him. He spoke of how the man defended him, how he took him along, how he cared for him. He spoke of a play, of puppets, of people laughing.
And then he spoke of Aerion.
"He hit a woman," Aegon said, his voice breaking. "A woman from the play. Just because she said something he didn’t like. He struck her, sister. In the face. I saw it."
You swallowed. Your stomach churned.
"Ser Duncan stopped him," Aegon continued, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. "He struck him. Aerion. And Daeron… Daeron said Ser Duncan had kidnapped me. Me."
Your father. You imagined him hearing that. His face. His fury.
Aegon looked at you with the saddest eyes you had ever seen in a child.
"They’re furious, sister. They’re going to hold a trial. A trial by seven. They’re going to kill Ser Duncan, and it’s my fault. I went with him, I—"
You embraced him again. So tightly you felt his small bones beneath your arms.
"It’s not your fault," you whispered into his ear. "It’s not your fault, Aegon. You did nothing wrong."
But inside, something froze.
When Aegon had calmed enough, a maid led him away to bathe and eat. You remained still for a moment in the middle of the corridor, listening to your heart beating too fast.
"I’ll speak with my father," you whispered.
You straightened—and then you saw him. Valarr. Standing there, looking at you with those eyes that seemed to see everything. For a moment, the world stilled. You remembered the forest. The tree. The kiss.
You stepped back.
You couldn’t. You had already done too much. Complicated everything too much. Your father was furious, your uncle Baelor surely as well—and you, thinking of kisses while the world fell apart.
You said nothing. You simply lowered your gaze and walked away.
The door to your father’s chamber was ajar. A sliver of yellow light spilled into the dark corridor. You pushed it gently and entered.
Maekar stood by the window, looking outside. He did not turn when you entered. He said nothing. But he knew you. He knew it was you just by the way you breathed.
"You’ve come to beg for that man’s life," he said without looking at you. His voice sounded tired. Old. "Without knowing him. Just because Aegon told you, isn’t that right, little one?"
You stepped forward. Your hands trembled, but you hid them in the folds of your dress.
"We cannot ignore how well we know Aerion, father. We both know that—"
He turned. His eyes—the same ones that once looked at you with pride when you learned to ride—now held something you couldn’t recognize.
"He is my son," he said, cutting your words like a blade. "As much as you are."
You nodded. Because it was true. Because you could not deny it.
"I only want you to know," you said, your voice trembling slightly, "that I do not wish to marry Daeron or Aerion. Leaving me with them is like condemning me to a living death, father. Daeron can barely handle himself, and Aerion is a—"
"You do not decide that, my dear." Your father stepped closer, and for a moment you saw the man who once held you in his lap as a child. "I will make the decision that best suits you. Your brothers would never harm you."
You looked at him.
Truly looked at him.
And for the first time in your life, you saw that he did not understand. That he did not want to understand. That he preferred believing Aerion’s mask rather than the truth you carried every day.
You stepped back. One step. Another. Until your back touched the door.
You left without another word.
Tears flooded your face the moment you crossed the threshold. You ran down the corridor without knowing where you were going—you only wanted to get away, to hide, to disappear.
Your father would never accept calling his sons monsters or wretches, no matter how loudly it was shouted. Even if he saw it. Even if it was carved into their skin.
You wiped your cheeks with your sleeves, but the tears wouldn’t stop.
If that was how he thought… then your father truly intended to marry you to Aerion. Perhaps the certainty with which Aerion had spoken to you in the great hall came from showing another face to your father. Pretending to love you. Pretending to protect you.
A shiver ran through you.
"The skies are clouded."
Valarr’s voice came from behind, soft like a touch you didn’t want but needed. He approached and offered a clean white handkerchief, neatly folded.
You took it. Wiped your eyes, your nose, your cheeks.
"The stars that are usually seen are hidden tonight," he said.
You nodded. You did not speak. You did not look at him.
He noticed. Of course he did. Valarr always noticed everything.
"What happened in the forest…" he began, his voice faltering in a way you had never heard before. "I am willing to—"
"No."
The word left your mouth before you could stop it. You turned to him, and seeing his face—that face you had kissed, dreamed of, wanted—broke your heart into pieces.
"My father… I cannot disobey my father," you whispered. The words tasted like ash. "I will marry one of my brothers. That has been decided."
You lowered your gaze. You could not hold his eyes.
"I’m sorry. I… behaved inappropriately, Prince."
Those words sealed everything.
The silence between you grew so heavy you thought it might crush you. Then his footsteps retreating. Alone. Slow. Each one like a blow to your chest.
You didn’t cry anymore. You couldn’t.
That was your last conversation with Valarr before Prince Baelor’s death.
No one saw it coming. No one expected that trial to end badly. The seven knights. The blows. The clash of swords. And then… silence.
Prince Baelor fell. And the world stopped.
You attended the funeral with your family. All in black, all with solemn faces, all pretending the world remained the same when it did not.
From across the courtyard, you saw Valarr. He looked paler than you remembered. Thinner. His eyes were red from crying, though he was not crying at that moment. He simply stared at his father’s coffin as if he could not believe it was there.
He looked at you.
You looked at him.
And you both looked away at the same time.
Two days passed without speaking. Without crossing paths. Without seeking each other.
As if the kiss in the forest had never happened. As if the lilac flower had never rested behind your ear. As if his lips had never touched yours.
But at night, when you closed your eyes, you felt it. The warmth of his hand on your waist. The beat of his heart beneath your fingers. The taste of his mouth.
And you cried in silence, burying your sobs into the pillow so no one would hear.
You would return home the next day, and your fate would be decided. That night, you remained in your chamber, watching the candle burn down slowly, wondering what kind of life awaited you. On the other side of the castle, while the wind blew cold between Ashford’s towers, things happened that you would never know.
Things that would change everything.
Aerion lay in bed, slowly recovering from the blows Ser Duncan had dealt him. His groans filled the room each time the maid changed the bandages, but you were not there to hear them.
Perhaps it was that your father, weary, had gone to check on his wounded son and in the dark corridor encountered Aegon. His youngest. The one who always watched the world with wide eyes.
Aegon held a dagger. Small, almost a toy—but still a dagger.
"Aegon," Maekar said tiredly. "What are you doing awake? Return to your chamber."
The boy looked at him. And in his eyes was something that chilled your father’s blood.
"Aerion will destroy the only light in our home, father," Aegon whispered, in a voice that did not sound like a child’s. "When my sister marries him, he will break her into pieces. I know it. I have seen it."
Maekar was left speechless. He looked at the dagger, at his young son, and for the first time in a long while, did not know what to say.
Or perhaps it was Ser Duncan who found him and said:
"My lord, Aegon must be kept away from castles. From protocol. From his family. Otherwise, he will end up like Aerion. Or worse. Children learn what they see."
Maekar clenched his fists but did not reply.
Or perhaps it was Valarr.
The prince, who had not eaten in two days, stood before his uncle in the empty hall hours after the funeral. Torches burned low, wood crackled in the hearth, and Baelor’s ghost seemed to linger between them.
Maekar knew his sin. Perhaps it weighed upon him to see Valarr so like his dead brother that he could not meet his gaze.
"We leave tomorrow, Prince," Maekar said, staring at the flames.
"My father died," Valarr replied, his voice steady though slightly trembling. "Before he passed, he told me to guard well the alliances I made. But before any alliance, to choose my heart."
Maekar looked at him, confused.
"Aerion has made repugnant insinuations toward my cousin," Valarr continued. "His intentions, uncle. If she marries one of her brothers, they will destroy her. And she is willing to endure it for you. Because she loves her father."
Maekar sighed. Deep. Tired.
"My daughter and my little Aegon must remain with me," he said. "The North made an alliance proposal for her, and I refused it. A great house. Lands. Power. But I said no."
Valarr looked at him in surprise.
"My daughter… deserves the best," Maekar continued, almost to himself. "If she remains with me, with her brothers, she will lose nothing. She will have the best. I will see that Aerion gives her the best."
Valarr’s jaw tightened.
"The best?" he asked, his voice no longer trembling—now it burned. "Aerion loses his temper easily. His patience is thin. Will he turn a deaf ear when my cousin begs for a fragment of happiness he cannot give? Will he turn her own home into a cage?"
Maekar opened his mouth, but Valarr did not let him speak.
"And who shall I marry her to, then?" Maekar asked when he could. "Any man will take her far away, and if he harms her, I will not be there. I would have to declare war—but my daughter would not be with me. I would lose her the moment she was harmed."
Valarr stepped forward.
"I want to marry her."
Silence fell.
Maekar stared at him, wide-eyed. But before he could speak, Valarr continued:
"I told my father before… before the trial. I confessed that I had fallen in love with her. And he accepted it. He said he would speak with you, that you would discuss it after the trial." He swallowed. "There is no one in this world who loves her as I do. I have loved her for years, uncle. Since we were children. And I have not stopped loving her for a single day."
Maekar hesitated.
He remembered then, days before, when Baelor had finished dinner and casually said: “In the marriage market, perhaps it should remain within the family.”
He had laughed. He hadn’t understood.
Now he did.
"Your father had other plans with—" Maekar began, but stopped.
"We delayed the agreement with Kiera," Valarr said. "My father said the alliance would not proceed until the next month, depending on the council’s decision. You are part of that council. You know I would never harm your daughter."
His voice softened.
"I will give her everything. Jewels, status. She will know no discomfort, no hunger, no illness. I will love her so deeply she will be happy. I will give her everything she needs. But above all, she will be the only woman in my life. I swear it, uncle. Just do not let her marry Aerion."
Valarr’s words struck Maekar like a blow.
He remembered Ser Duncan. Aegon with the dagger. His daughter’s eyes when she said she could not choose.
And he knew the squire was right.
You learned of Maekar’s decision that very night. The candles had nearly burned out, and you sat by the window, watching the moon, when your chamber doors burst open.
Valarr entered.
Your heart leapt. You stood so quickly you nearly stumbled over the chair.
"What are you doing here, Prince?" you whispered, approaching him. You glanced toward the corridor over his shoulder, fearing someone might see. "If they see you here, they will start rumors and—"
He looked at you. And in his eyes was something different. Something you had never seen before.
"Rumors?" he repeated, a small smile forming. "And what would they gain from that? A rumor that Prince Valarr was seen entering the chamber of his future wife?"
It took you a moment to understand.
Two.
Three.
"What?"
He smiled—fully, brightly.
"Your father agreed to our marriage."
Your eyes widened. The words did not quite sink in.
"We leave tomorrow," Valarr continued, stepping closer. "You will not go to his castle. You will go to Dragonstone with me. After leaving Aerion at Gulltown, he will come to formalize it before the court."
You shook your head. Tears already burned behind your eyes.
"If you felt obligated because of what happened in the forest, don’t—" you began, but he took your hands in his.
They were warm. Steady.
"I have always dreamed of marrying you," he said softly. "I told my brother. I confessed it because I feared disappointing my father. But wanting to marry you since I was seven? Too soon, don’t you think? I did not want to frighten you."
He smiled, and your tears fell.
"So I waited. Slowly. Years, waiting." He squeezed your hands. "I no longer have my father. But when I spoke to him, he told me he had always thought of you. That he would have agreed immediately, if not for the trial."
His hand released one of yours to touch your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear.
"Please. Accept the love I have long wished to give you."
You could not hold back anymore.
You threw yourself into him, holding him with all your strength. You buried your face in his neck, feeling his warmth, his scent, his heart beating as fast as yours. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you as though you were the most precious thing in the world.
"When you asked who I would choose to marry," you whispered against his skin, "it would be you."
You pulled back slightly to look into his eyes.
"There is no one in this world I have fallen in love with as I have with you."
At last, you could kiss him without fear.
Without hiding. Without wondering who might see. Without the weight of the future crushing you.
You smiled against his lips, then embraced him again, laughing and crying at once.
The next day, you both departed with the others.
In Ashford’s courtyard, the horses waited. The morning sun warmed the gray stone, and birds sang in the nearby trees. Your father stood beside his horse, and when he saw you descend the stairs hand in hand with Valarr, he nodded.
Just once. A small tilt of his head.
But in his eyes, you saw something you had not seen since you were a child: peace.
You approached him. He embraced you tightly, as he used to when you were small and plagued by nightmares. He kissed your forehead.
"Take care of her," he said to Valarr over your shoulder.
"For all my life," Valarr replied.
And then you departed.
Your family took the road toward Gulltown. You turned instead toward Dragonstone with Valarr, riding side by side beneath the sun, feeling that at last the air tasted different. Cleaner. Freer.
Your father remained watching as you rode away, until you became nothing more than a point on the horizon. Then he turned his horse and looked at his family: Aerion, still bitter in his saddle; Daeron, lost in his own thoughts; and the empty space where Aegon should have been.
Because Aegon had left.
With Maekar’s permission, with Ser Duncan. Far from castles, from protocols, from a family that might have broken him. To live a different life.
Maekar sighed and spurred his horse forward.
He had made many poor decisions in his life. But that morning, watching his daughter ride toward a happy future, he knew he had made the right one.
Years passed.
You married Valarr at Dragonstone, with the sea crashing against the cliffs below and the stone dragon watching from above. Your father traveled for the wedding, and when he saw you dressed in white, flowers in your hair and a smile that would not fade, he felt his chest fill with something he could not name.
Then came the children.
First a girl, with Valarr’s blue and brown eyes and your blonde hair. Then another, more mischievous, who ran through the halls as Aegon once did. Then two boys—twins—who fought and loved each other with equal intensity.
And your father came whenever he could.
He would arrive at Dragonstone, and the children would run to greet him, shouting, “Grandfather! Grandfather!” while he laughed and lifted them into his arms one by one.
He would look at you—with your family, with your husband who still looked at you as though you were newly in love, with your children healthy and happy, with your round belly once again because yes, another was on the way.
And he would smile.
There was no doubt.
He had made the best decision of his life.
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