synopsys: In which you're oblivious and try to set him up.
wordcount: 4.1k
requested by @verouys
The gardens of the Red Keep had always been your sanctuary, though today they felt more like a cage of blooms and buzzing insects. You sat on the stone bench beneath the weirwood sapling—the one that would never grow properly in this southern soil—and pretended to read a book about Dornish poetry.
You weren't reading. You were watching.
Across the garden, Valarr Targaryen stood with a cluster of courtiers, his black doublet immaculate despite the afternoon heat. That ridiculous streak of silver-gold in his brown hair caught the sunlight like a promise, and when he laughed at something one of the lords said, you felt your stomach do something entirely inappropriate.
Not that you'd ever admit it.
You'd known Valarr since you were both children, stumbling through dance lessons and falling asleep during Maester's lectures. He was your best friend. Your only real friend, if you were being honest with yourself, which you tried not to be about certain things.
He caught you staring and grinned, excusing himself from the courtiers to cross the garden toward you.
"You've been on that same page for twenty minutes," he said, dropping onto the bench beside you. Close enough that his knee brushed yours. Close enough that you could smell the faint sandalwood of his soap. "Is Dornish poetry that captivating, or are you just avoiding Lady Elisweth again?"
"Both," you admitted, snapping the book shut. "She wants to discuss her daughter's upcoming marriage to some Reach lord, and I've heard the details fourteen times. I counted."
Valarr's mismatched eyes softened with amusement. "Fourteen? You're certain it wasn't fifteen?"
"I'm an excellent counter."
"You're excellent at everything." He bumped his shoulder against yours, and warmth bloomed through your chest like spilled wine. "Walk with me? The Small Council is meeting, and I'm meant to be observing 'the duties of a future king' or some such nonsense. Father won't notice if I'm late."
You should have said no. You should have remembered that every time you spent alone with Valarr, you ended up feeling confused and fluttery and generally nonsensical. But you never did.
"Fine," you said, standing. "But if your father asks, I was lecturing you on Dornish poetry."
"Tyrannically, I'm sure."
The walk through the godswood was comfortable, familiar. Valarr talked about his younger brother Matarys's latest mischief—something involving a cat, a pie, and the Master of Coin—and you listened, laughing in all the right places. This was easy. This was how it had always been.
Which was why you felt safe enough to bring up the topic that had been nagging at you for weeks.
"Valarr?"
"Hmm?"
"Can I ask you something? Something... personal?"
He stopped walking, turning to face you with an expression of genuine concern. "Of course. You can ask me anything."
You bit your lip, suddenly uncertain. But the question had been burning in your mind ever since Lady Florent's dinner party, when Valarr had spent the entire evening speaking to exactly three people: you, his father, and the wine steward.
"Why don't you ever... talk to women?"
His face did something complicated. "I talk to you."
"That's different. I'm me." You waved a hand dismissively. "I mean other women. Ladies at court. Eligible ones."
Valarr's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I talk to them when necessary."
"Necessary." You stared at him. "Valarr, you're the heir to the heir. You're eight and teen, unmarried, and I've watched you literally walk around Lady Cassana rather than pass her on the stairwell."
"I was going the other direction anyway."
"You turned around mid-step and walked into a tapestry."
He had the grace to look embarrassed. "It was a very nice tapestry."
You grabbed his arm, pulling him toward a stone bench beneath an ancient oak. "Sit. We're having a proper conversation about this."
"I don't want to have a proper conversation about this."
"Sit."
He sat.
You settled beside him, tucking your feet up on the bench and turning to face him fully. "Valarr, be serious with me. Your parents have been trying to arrange matches for you since you were fifteen. Your mother sends you to speak with eligible ladies at every feast. And you... what? Grunt at them and leave?"
"I do not grunt."
"You absolutely grunt. I've heard it. It's a very distinctive grunt."
He crossed his arms, looking remarkably like a sulking child despite being nearly six feet of Targaryen prince. "I simply haven't found anyone suitable."
"No one? In three years of introductions? There have been dozens of women, Valarr. Beautiful ones. Clever ones. One of them could recite the entire lineage of House Targaryen from memory."
"That one tried to correct my Valyrian pronunciation."
"So?"
"So, my Valyrian pronunciation is perfect."
You threw your hands up. "You're impossible."
"I'm selective."
"You're turning down every match your parents suggest. Lady Roslin? Rejected. Lady Alysanne? You hid in the stables for three hours. Lady Jeyne? You told her you preferred horses to people, which I suppose is honest, but—"
"She asked if I thought she was prettier than my horse."
"Was she?"
Valarr paused, considering. "My horse has very kind eyes."
You burst out laughing, and after a moment, he joined you. This was why you loved— liked. This was why you liked spending time with him. He could always make you laugh, even when you were trying to be serious.
"Valarr," you said, once you'd composed yourself. "You have to marry eventually. You're the heir."
His expression shifted, something flickering in those mismatched eyes. "I know."
"So why not at least try? Give someone a chance? You might be surprised."
He was quiet for a long moment, studying your face with an intensity that made your skin warm. "And what about you?" he asked softly. "You're unmarried as well. I've noticed you turn down your share of suitors too."
"That's different."
"Is it?"
"Yes." You looked away, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "I just haven't found anyone who... who makes me feel..."
The way you make me feel, your traitorous mind supplied. Who looks at me the way you do. Who makes my heart race without even trying.
"Who makes you feel what?" Valarr prompted, his voice unusually gentle.
"Safe," you said finally. "Comfortable. Like I can be myself without pretending."
He reached out, tucking a nonexistent strand of hair behind your ear with such casual intimacy that you forgot to breathe. "You deserve that," he said. "Someone who loves you. All of you. Not just the lady at court, but the girl who feeds bacon to the castle cats and argues with maesters about Dornish poetry."
Your heart was doing something alarming in your chest. "You remember the cats?"
"I remember everything about you."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning you couldn't quite grasp. Valarr's hand lingered near your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, and for one wild, impossible moment, you thought—
"Your Grace!"
You both jerked apart as a page came running down the path, red-faced and breathless. "Your Grace, the Small Council—your father sent me to find you—he's very insistent—"
Valarr closed his eyes briefly, exhaling slowly. "Of course he did." He stood, smoothing his doublet, and for just a moment, his gaze caught yours. "We'll finish this conversation later."
It sounded like a promise.
Except you didn't let him finish it.
Because the more you thought about that moment in the godswood—the way he'd looked at you, touched you, spoken to you—the more confused you became. Valarr was your friend. Your best friend. He'd never given any indication of wanting more than that.
Had he?
No. No, certainly not. He was just... affectionate. That was all. He'd known you forever, so of course he was comfortable with you. It didn't mean anything.
He remembers everything about you.
You shook the thought away. It meant nothing. Valarr was simply a good friend. A very close, very handsome, very attentive friend who happened to make your heart race and your thoughts scatter.
Stop it, you told yourself firmly. He's your friend. Nothing more.
The problem, you decided, was that Valarr needed to find someone. Someone who wasn't you. Someone he could actually marry and love and—
Your stomach clenched painfully at the thought.
But it was the logical solution. If Valarr found a wife, he'd stop looking at you like that. Touching you like that. Making you feel things you had no business feeling. He'd be happy, and you'd be happy for him, and everything would go back to normal.
Normal. Yes.
You just had to find him the perfect match.
Lady Emilia Massey was beautiful, accomplished, and had a laugh like chiming bells. You'd positioned yourself strategically near the lemon cakes at the afternoon gathering, watching as Valarr approached her with the expression of a man walking to his own execution.
"Lady Emilia," he said, bowing stiffly. "Would you care to walk with me in the gardens?"
She dimpled prettily. "I would be honored, my prince."
You watched them disappear down the path, feeling oddly hollow. This was good. This was what you wanted. Valarr deserved someone lovely and appropriate, someone who wouldn't make him grunt and flee.
Twenty minutes later, Valarr reappeared—alone.
"That was quick," you said brightly, perhaps too brightly. "Did you enjoy your walk?"
"There was a bee."
"A bee."
"A very aggressive bee." He sat down heavily beside you, reaching for a lemon cake. "It kept circling us. She was quite distressed. I escorted her back inside."
"You escorted her back inside because of a bee?"
"Would you prefer I let her be stung?"
You stared at him. "Valarr, there are bees in the gardens constantly. You've never once escorted me inside because of a bee."
"That's different."
"How?"
He took a bite of cake, avoiding your gaze. "You're not afraid of bees."
"I'm terrified of bees."
"You've never mentioned it."
"You've never given me a reason to."
He had no response to that, just looked at you with an expression you couldn't read.
Lady Marcella Crane was next. You engineered an introduction at the library, knowing Valarr spent his mornings there. She was clever, well-read, and shared his interest in dragon lore.
You watched them from behind a shelf of histories, pretending to be absorbed in a book about the Dornish Marches. They talked for nearly an hour. An hour. You'd never seen Valarr talk to anyone for that long except you.
When they emerged, Lady Marcella was smiling. Valarr was... Valarr.
"The library was pleasant," he reported later, when you found him in the training yard. "She knows quite a bit about dragons."
"That's wonderful!"
"Yes." He parried a practice blow from a knight, then turned back to you. "She suggested I grow a beard."
"A beard?"
"To look more 'kingly,' she said. More 'distinguished.'" He paused, lowering his sword. "Do I need to look more distinguished?"
You studied him—sweaty, flushed from exertion, that ridiculous silver streak and his brown hair plastered all over his forehead. "No," you said honestly. "You look like you."
Something warm flickered in his eyes. "Good. That's what I prefer to look like."
By the fourth rejection, you were beginning to suspect a pattern.
Lady Celine Hightower was too tall. Lady Arwen Oakheart talked too much about her horses. Lady Jenna Marbrand laughed too loudly. Lady Sara Westerling had an unfortunate preference for boiled eggs.
"She boiled them," Valarr said, as if this explained everything. "At the breakfast table. In front of everyone."
"People eat boiled eggs, Valarr."
"Not at my breakfast table they don't."
You pressed your fingers to your temples. "You're impossible. You're genuinely impossible. What do you want in a wife? Tell me. Give me something to work with."
He considered this, tilting his head in that way that made your heart flutter traitorously. "I want someone who doesn't try to be someone they're not. Someone who's comfortable with silence. Someone who laughs at my jokes even when they're not funny."
"Everyone laughs at your jokes. You're a prince."
"You don't."
You blinked. "What?"
"You don't laugh at my jokes just because I'm a prince. Sometimes you don't laugh at all. You just look at me like I'm an idiot and change the subject."
"You are an idiot sometimes."
"Yes." He smiled, that real smile, the one he saved for you. "That's what I mean."
You didn't understand. You never understood, not really. But something in his words made your chest ache.
Lady Rosa's Frey's cousin was the final straw.
You'd watched Valarr spend exactly four minutes with her before excusing himself to check on his horse, a horse that was, as far as you knew, perfectly healthy and didn't require checking. He didn't speak to another woman for the rest of the evening.
You were brooding about it in the library the next morning when Matarys Targaryen—Valarr's younger brother, all of fourteen and insufferably pleased with himself—slid into the chair across from you.
"You're doing that thing again," he said.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you stare at my brother like he's a puzzle you can't solve and your face does that crinkly thing."
"My face does not do a crinkly thing."
"It absolutely does. It's very sad to watch." He helped himself to an apple from the bowl on the table, biting into it with a loud crunch. "Still trying to marry him off?"
"I'm trying to help him find happiness."
"By forcing him to talk to women he clearly doesn't want to talk to?"
You frowned. "He has to marry eventually. He's the heir."
"Does he, though?" Matarys leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I mean, have you considered why he doesn't want to talk to them?"
"Because he's difficult and picky and once rejected someone because she ate boiled eggs?"
Matarys snorted. "No. Well, yes, that's also true. But there's another reason." He glanced around dramatically, as if checking for spies. "A secret reason. A family secret."
You leaned in despite yourself. "What kind of secret?"
"The kind that explains why my brother has turned down every eligible lady in the Seven Kingdoms." Matarys bit into his apple again, chewing with infuriating slowness. "Think about it. He's handsome, charming when he wants to be, heir to the Iron Throne. Any woman would be thrilled to marry him. And yet—"
"And yet nothing," you said. "He's just... particular."
"He's particular about women because he's not interested in women." Matarys raised his eyebrows meaningfully. "At all."
The words took a moment to land. And then another moment. And then they crashed into your brain like a runaway cart.
"You're saying—"
"I'm saying nothing." He held up his hands innocently. "I'm merely suggesting that if my brother has shown zero interest in every eligible lady you've thrown at him, perhaps the problem isn't the ladies. Perhaps the problem is that they're ladies."
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"But he—we've been friends forever—he's never—"
"Never what? Shown interest in anyone? Talked about wanting to marry? Glanced twice at any woman at court?" Matarys shrugged. "Strange, isn't it? Almost like he's waiting for someone who isn't a woman."
He stood, brushing apple crumbs from his tunic. "Anyway, just a thought. I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually. You seem clever." He paused at the door. "Well. Clever enough."
And then he was gone, leaving you alone with the most horrifying realization of your life.
Valarr Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne, your dearest friend in all the world—
Preferred men.
It made so much sense. The discomfort around eligible ladies, the avoidance, the way he seemed utterly uninterested in every woman presented to him. He wasn't being picky. He wasn't being difficult. He simply... wasn't attracted to them.
And you, his closest friend, had been torturing him by forcing introductions to woman after woman.
Guilt crashed over you like a wave. How could you have been so blind? So stupid? He'd trusted you with his friendship, and you'd spent weeks trying to marry him off to people he could never love.
Well. You'd fix this. You'd make it right.
You just had to find him a man instead.
Ser Davon Fossoway was handsome, chivalrous, and currently unattached. You cornered him after the midday meal, explaining that the prince had expressed interest in discussing—something. You hadn't quite worked out the details.
"He wants to discuss... swordplay?" Ser Davon looked confused but hopeful. "With me specifically?"
"You're an excellent swordsman, aren't you?"
"I like to think so, my lady."
"Perfect. He specifically mentioned wanting to speak with an excellent swordsman. In private. In the gardens. By the rose arbor."
The rose arbor was romantic. Everyone knew that. You were very clever.
Ser Davon arrived promptly. You watched from behind a hedge as Valarr approached, looking baffled.
"Ser Davon? My... my friend said you wished to speak with me about something?"
"I understood it was you who wished to speak with me, my prince."
"Oh. Well. I suppose we can... speak?"
They stood there awkwardly for a long moment.
"Lovely weather," Ser Davon offered.
"Yes. Very... weather."
"Good for swordplay."
"Is it?"
"Generally, yes. Dry ground, you know. Less mud."
"I... see."
Another long pause.
"Well," Ser Davon said finally, "if that's all, my prince, I should return to my duties."
"Yes. Duties. Of course."
Ser Davon bowed and fled. Valarr stood alone in the rose arbor, looking like a man who'd just survived a battle he hadn't known he was fighting.
You needed a different approach.
Ser Addam Rowan was older, more confident, and reportedly very charming. You arranged for him to encounter Valarr in the library, where the prince spent his mornings. Surely a shared interest in books would—
"Are you... following me?" Valarr asked, when you appeared behind a shelf for the third time that week.
"What? No. I'm researching. For a thing. A research thing."
He raised an eyebrow—the one above his blue eye, which always made him look particularly skeptical. "You're researching in the military history section? You once told me you'd rather clean the dragonpit than read about battles."
"This is... different research."
"What kind of research?"
"The kind I don't need to explain to you."
He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell sandalwood and parchment. "You've been acting strange for weeks. Setting me up with ladies, then suddenly with knights. What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on. I just want you to be happy."
"I'm happy."
"You're lonely."
His expression shifted, something vulnerable flickering across his features. "I'm not lonely. I have you."
"That's different. That's—I'm your friend. You need more than a friend. You need someone who can be... who can give you..."
"I have everything I need."
You swallowed hard, your throat tight. "Valarr, you don't have to pretend with me. I understand. I figured it out."
"Figured what out?"
"That you're not... that you don't..." You lowered your voice, glancing around the empty library. "That you prefer the company of men."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Valarr stared at you. His mismatched eyes went wide, then narrower, then wide again. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened.
"You think," he said slowly, "that I prefer men."
"I understand if you can't say it openly. With your position, it must be—"
"I don't prefer men."
"But you never—all those ladies—you never showed any interest—"
"I showed interest in exactly one person." His voice was strange, tight with something you couldn't identify. "For years. Constantly. Relentlessly. To the point where my parents have a bet about it."
You blinked. "A bet?"
"Mother thinks I'll confess by my nineteenth nameday. Father thinks I'll wait until I'm twenty. They've been wagering for three years."
"I don't understand."
"I know you don't." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That's the problem. That's always been the problem. You don't see it. You've never seen it."
"See what?"
He stepped closer, and closer still, until you were backed against a shelf of musty histories with nowhere to go. His hands came up to frame your face, gentle but insistent, and his eyes—one blue, one brown—burned into yours.
"You," he said softly. "Only you. Always you."
And then he kissed you.
The world stopped.
No—the world started, for the first time in your life. Colors brightened. Sounds sharpened. Everything you'd never understood, never let yourself feel, came crashing down in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
Valarr's lips were soft against yours, tentative at first, then firmer when you didn't pull away. His hands slid into your hair, tangling in the strands, and you made a sound you didn't recognize—somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.
When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours, breath coming fast.
"Now do you understand?" he whispered.
You couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Could only stare at him—this boy you'd known your whole life, your dearest friend, the one who remembered everything about you.
"Why didn't you tell me?" you finally managed.
"I tried. Constantly. You never noticed."
"I'm stupid."
"You're not stupid. You're..." He laughed softly, warm breath ghosting across your lips. "You're you. And I love you. I've always loved you."
Something cracked open in your chest, flooding warmth through every part of you. "I love you too. I think I have for years. I just didn't—I couldn't—"
"I know." He kissed you again, quick and sweet. "I know."
"What do we do now?"
"Now?" He smiled—that real smile, the one you'd always thought was just for you. It was. It had always been. "Now we tell my father he owes my mother a foot massage."
You pulled back, confused. "What?"
He took your hand, pulling you toward the library door. "Come on. I want to see the look on my father's face."
The walk through the Red Keep was a blur. Valarr's hand stayed wrapped around yours, warm and solid, and you couldn't stop staring at the way your fingers intertwined. His thumb traced patterns on your skin, soothing and electric all at once.
Prince Baelor Breakspear and his wife Princess Jena were in the hand's tower, enjoying the afternoon sun on their private terrace. When you appeared in the doorway, hand in hand with their son, Baelor's eyebrows shot upward.
"Valarr?" Jena set down her wine glass, a smile already curving her lips. "And... oh. Oh."
"Mother. Father." Valarr squeezed your hand. "I believe you know the Lady Y/N."
Baelor's gaze dropped to your joined hands, then rose to meet his son's eyes. Something passed between them, a look of understanding, of recognition, of finally.
"Son," Baelor said slowly, "is there something you wish to tell us?"
"I wished to introduce you to my future wife."
The words hit you like a physical blow. You turned to stare at Valarr, who was watching you with an expression of such warm certainty that your knees went weak.
"Future—Valarr, we haven't even—"
"I've been waiting years," he said simply. "I'm not waiting any longer."
Jena clapped her hands together, beaming. "I knew it. Baelor, pay up."
Baelor sighed, reaching for his coin purse. "You said by his nineteenth nameday. His nameday is still three moons away."
"The spirit of the bet, husband. The spirit."
"I don't believe in the spirit of bets. I believe in strict interpretation."
"You owe me a foot massage, and you know it."
While his parents bickered good-naturedly, Valarr tugged you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. "They've been doing this since I was fifteen," he murmured. "Every time I looked at you too long, Mother would nudge Father and whisper 'there it is.'"
"You looked at me?"
"Constantly. Relentlessly. To the point of embarrassment."
You thought back over the years—every lingering glance, every casual touch, every time he'd appeared at your side without being called. How had you missed it? How had you been so blind?
"I really am stupid," you murmured.
"No." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "You're perfect."
"Now you're just being romantic."
"Is it working?"
You smiled up at him—this boy, this prince, this man who'd loved you for years without you ever knowing. "Yes," you said softly. "It's working."
On the terrace, Baelor handed over a small pouch of coins with exaggerated reluctance. Jena accepted it with a triumphant grin, then raised her wine glass in your direction.
"To the future," she called. "And to my son finally having the sense to act on what's been obvious to everyone except the two of you."
Valarr groaned. You laughed.
And when he kissed you again, right there in front of his parents and half the court, you finally understood what you'd been missing all along.
Nothing at all.
Because he'd been there the whole time. Waiting. Hoping. Loving you.
Everyday for the past week or so, I kept going under the Valarr Targaryen x reader posts hoping to see if you’ve posted something new & it seems my prayers have been answered today 🙂↕️🙂↕️ This so touching yet so hilarious omg & the interactions between Baelor and Jena 🥹🥹🥹🥹 absolutely PRECIOUS
You know those couples where you just know the husband doesn’t play about his wife? Thats what they’re giving.
I don’t know why I’m so obsessed with them that I actually want to write about their marriage as soon as I have more information. The actress of Kiera looks adorable and pretty with her beautiful pink hair and Valarr Targaryen is an absolute hottie.
Listen, he is my baby girl, and I hold him near and dear to my heart...
But going from a softspoken, well-adjusted Valarr, to alcoholic dragon-dreamer Daeron feels like a hell on Earth, and I can't help but feel heartbroken for Kiera.
The last thing a barely 20yo woman needs after losing her two stillborn children and her husband, is to be married off to his oldest available cousin who spends all of his time inebriated to escape THE DEMONS!
baelor targaryen x maiden!reader (smut, 0.7k words) – can't get him off my mind. someone help!
summary the heir to the iron throne spends a night with his hand maiden.
ʚ warning(s) smut, language, reader has a vagina, fingering, squirting, baelor's long ass fingersss, corruption kink vibes. +18/minors dni
you always ask baelor to leave his rings on while he's finger fucking you. and who is he to deny your weeping pleas of needy whines and spread thighs?
"how many fingers this night, sweetling?"
baelor is only patient enough to stare into the drooling slit of your center and huff even breaths onto your skin, awaiting your answer. you squirm under the pointedness of his gaze, a dark swirling just below the different shades of blue. the pits of your knees hang just over the heir's shoulders, restless with an itch to tug him closer.
'next time,' he'd promised after you'd asked to feel his tongue.
"t-three," you finally exhale with an impatient gulp. baelor chuckles once, mouth curling with a pleasant-looking delight. a sudden gasp jerks your lungs when he presses the pad of his thumb right into your clit, rubbing circles pressed into the button of nerves while the tips of his second and third fingers swipe at your messy folds.
"hm. feeling brave today, i see."
seven hells, you're seeping nectar, just like the fruit he had brought to your chambers this morn. the most important meal of the day, he reminded you, between feeding you wedges of fresh citrus. now here he prepares his most important spread, where he will feed and fill until you are soaked in sweat and stink of only him.
a beat stuffed full with anticipation passes. then baelor drools out long, slow-sinking lines of spit that ooze right onto your slit. he mixes the slobber with your mess, etching the your cry of his name as he glides a single digit inside your hole into his fondest memory. clenching around him, you breathe with tiny whines until he's knuckle deep.
"i…" you pant, lulling your head to the side to pout at baelor, who just raises an eyebrow. "three. i thought it was going to be three."
you feel drunk off the gentle bend of the finger inside you, slurring your words as the man pats your belly and throws a quiet tsk your way.
"none of that, now. i must take my time with someone as precious as you. just as the time before…"
he waits until you finally stop whimpering to slip in the second and third, curling them at a practiced angle. the cool of his rings sting nicely against your overheating skin, and his hand splayed at your hip to keep you from lifting to far from the bedding.
"see there, dear?" baelor pumps his hand with smooth strokes, reaching toward the depths of you with ease. the legnth of his touch can extend well past where the tips of your end during the nights when he is in counsel or away. your fingers feel nothing of the same as baelor's that your pussy threatens to swallow whole. the stretch forces your eyes to roll, and his palm grows sticky with a mess of your cream. "i told you i'd make it worth your while. everytime."
once you've fully lost your breath, baelor sinks his fingers entirely inside your heat, leaving his hand but stroking languid rolls right into a place that wells fat tears into your eyes.
"a-ah, your grace. it feels…" you pants, losing sight of the words at a sweeling build of pressure. "your sheets–sire."
a gush of liquid renders you into a mess of loud wails and clutches of the pillow behind your head. you lift into the air with a deep arch to your back, and it feels as if the only thing keeping you from floating to be one with the the gods is the arm baelor pins you with when you squirt for a second and third time.
your sounds echo, bouncing off the walls of his chambers and drowning out the even lines of reassurence baelor professes as you peak.
"that's it. that's it, empty yourself onto me. i've got you, just let it come."
you come until can no longer, your body giving out to sag with loose limbs. an inevitable twitch still jerks you every other moment or so, baelor enjoying your choppy gasps and thrown head with a surveil of poorly-contained fervor.
you, the poor thing, look as if you've been to another realm and have only just traveled back through the heat of the red waste. eventually lifting your head to blink at him through your wet lashes.
"…m-my apologies for the mess of your sheets, your grace," you croak, gulping because his hand is still weged inside you. "i've never done… anything like that before."
an easy smile warms the face of baelor, who shakes his head.
"never apologize for the soaking of my linens, my darling… just promise that, the next time, you will drench my beard instead."
Tumblr really needs a “silence” button. Like sometimes I don’t wanna block someone, I just don’t wanna see their posts. Half the x reader tag is just random memes and people complaining, and it’d be so nice to just mute those accounts.
The reader is a foreigner, i made sure not to describe where she's from
Synopsys: In which your betrothed is always silent or silenced
Word count: 4k
Warnings: None
The letter had been written on parchment so fine it felt like silk, sealed with wax the color of dried blood and stamped with a three-headed dragon. You had read it seventeen times.
My dear Yn,
I am told we are to be married. I hope this news does not displease you. The gardens of the Red Keep are said to be beautiful in spring. Perhaps you would like to see them when you arrive. I should like to show them to you.
Yours, Valarr Targaryen
It was not a love letter, precisely. It was too brief, too formal for that. But there was something in the turn of phrase—I should like to show them to you—that had made your cheeks warm the first time you read it, and the seventeenth time as well.
Your mother had noticed. Your mother noticed everything.
"You're smiling at that scrap of paper again," your mother had said, not unkindly. "Shall I have it framed?"
You folded the letter quickly and tucked it into your sleeve. "I am merely attempting to decipher his handwriting. Some of these letters are quite peculiar."
"Mm. And that explains the blush, does it?"
That had been nine moons ago. He wrote about the weather, mostly. About a white horse he'd had as a boy. About a tournament he'd once attended where a knight broke his lance so spectacularly that everyone laughed. He wrote about his little brother Matarys, who apparently collected beetles and kept them in tiny boxes under his bed. He wrote about his father, Prince Baelor, with such obvious affection that your heart squeezed reading it.
He never wrote about himself, his looks specifically.
What does he look like? you had asked in your third letter, as delicately as you could manage.
His response had taken six weeks to arrive. I am told I resemble my father, but slighter. My hair is brown, mostly. There is a streak of silver in it that my brother says looks like someone spilled milk on my head. I have not decided whether this is an insult or mere observation.
That was all.
When you pressed further—surely there are portraits?—his next letter had been almost apologetic.
Portraits are not so common here as I understand they are in the Free Cities. The artists we have tend to paint kings and queens, not second sons who are second sons only until their father becomes king. I could commission one, but it would take months and you would be here before it was finished. Perhaps it is better that you meet me in person. I am told first meetings are more honest than paintings.
You stared at that paragraph for a very long time.
It was the kind of thing a person wrote when they had something to hide.
"He's ugly," you announced to your empty chamber one evening, three weeks before your departure. "He's definitely ugly. That's why there are no portraits. That's why he won't describe himself. He's probably covered in warts. He probably has three eyes."
But then you would read the part about the white horse again, and the bit about his brother's beetles, and you would think: even if he has three eyes, at least he's kind.
By the time the ship departed from the harbor of your home city—wherever that city might have been, some prosperous mercantile power with excellent banking institutions and very good pastries—you had worked yourself into a state of resigned acceptance.
You were sixteen years old. You were an only child, which meant you would inherit everything: the banking houses, the trade routes, the warehouses full of spices and silks and dyes. The marriage alliance with House Targaryen would make your family untouchable. It was a good match. A brilliant match.
Your future husband could have three eyes and warts on his warts, and you would still marry him with a smile on your face.
(Though you did pack an extra vial of rosewater facial tonic, just in case.)
---
The voyage took nineteen days.
Nineteen days of watching the horizon, of practicing your High Valyrian with your tutors, of having your mother remind you constantly to sit up straight and not fidget with your sleeves. Nineteen days of your father reviewing the terms of the marriage contract for the four hundredth time, muttering about dowries and inheritance rights and the precise legal status of any potential children should the worst befall the Targaryen line.
By the time the ship passed through the Gullet and into Blackwater Bay, you were so thoroughly sick of maritime travel that you would have kissed solid ground even if it were made of broken glass.
You were not prepared for King's Landing.
The city rose from the shore like a fever dream, sprawling, chaotic, and impossibly loud even from the water. The Red Keep perched on its hill like a dragon settling onto a carcass, all crimson walls and towers that caught the afternoon light.
And the smell. "Oh," you said faintly, pressing a handkerchief to your nose. "Oh, dear."
Your mother, who had visited Westeros once before as a girl, looked entirely too smug. "I did warn you."
"You said it was 'quite aromatic.' You did not say it smelled like someone died in a fishery and then the fishery caught fire."
"That's Flea Bottom on a good day. You'll get used to it."
"I will never get used to it. I will live in the Red Keep with my windows sealed forever. I will commission a glass garden and only breathe air that has been filtered through roses."
Your father patted your shoulder absently, still reading his contract. "That's the spirit."
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was exactly as overwhelming as you had feared.
Dragon tapestries lined the walls, their eyes following you as you walked the length of the hall. The Iron Throne loomed at the far end, a monstrous thing of melted swords that looked nothing like the elegant seat you'd imagined. Torches flickered. The floor was stone worn smooth by centuries of feet.
At the foot of the dais stood the royal family.
You recognized King Daeron II immediately—an older man, dignified, with a kind face and the violet eyes that marked his bloodline. Beside him stood a woman you assumed was the queen.
But it was the younger man who caught your attention.
He stood slightly apart from the others, as if he wasn't entirely certain he belonged in the family portrait. He was slim, fine-boned, with dark brown hair. And running through it, catching the torchlight like a thread of moonlight, was a streak of pure silver.
He was not ugly.
He was not covered in warts.
He was, in fact, quite possibly the most beautiful man you had ever seen.
Oh no, you thought, as your stomach performed a complicated maneuver that felt rather like a dragon taking flight. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
Your eyes met across the hall.
He smiled. It was a small smile, a little uncertain, a little hopeful. It was exactly the smile you had imagined when you read his letters about white horses and beetle collections.
You smiled back. You couldn't help it.
And then your father was propelling you forward, and there were introductions to be made—endless, tedious introductions, with King Daeron greeting you in passable Valyrian and Queen Someone-or-other complimenting your dress and a prince named Aerys (cousin? uncle? you couldn't keep them straight) asking about the interest rates in the Free Cities as if that were an appropriate topic for a first meeting.
Through it all, you kept trying to catch Valarr's eye.
He kept trying to catch yours.
You never quite managed it.
---
"You must be exhausted from your journey," Queen Myriah was saying. "We've prepared chambers in Maegor's Holdfast—"
"Your Grace, if I might—" Valarr stepped forward, but his grandmother was still speaking.
"—with windows facing the gardens, as I understand you're fond of—"
"Grandmother, I only wanted to—"
"—and we've arranged for a bath to be drawn, of course, after such a long voyage—"
"Grandmother."
Queen Myriah paused, turning to look at her grandson with the particular expression of a woman who was not accustomed to being interrupted. "Yes, Valarr?"
Valarr opened his mouth.
"I'm sure the prince was merely expressing his thanks for your hospitality," your mother cut in smoothly, with the practiced ease of a woman who had spent her entire life navigating diplomatic situations. "We are all most grateful."
Valarr closed his mouth.
You stared at him.
He looked at you, helpless, and shrugged very slightly.
That's odd, you thought. Why didn't he just say what he was going to say?
--
The welcome feast lasted four hours.
You sat at the high table, surrounded by Targaryens and Martells and various other noble houses whose names you couldn't possibly remember, and you watched your betrothed attempt to speak to you approximately seven times.
The first time: he leaned toward you, opened his mouth, and was immediately drowned out by Prince Maekar (another uncle? brother? you were losing track) banging his cup on the table and demanding more wine.
The second time: he got as far as "I hope the journey wasn't too—" before a servant dropped an entire platter of roasted peacock directly behind you, creating a crash that made you jump and Valarr wince.
The third time: someone—his brother Matarys, you thought, a gangly boy with the reddish hair grabbed his arm and began whispering urgently about a beetle he'd found in his pocket.
The fourth time: Queen Myriah asked you a question about Essosi fashions, and by the time you'd finished answering, Valarr was being pulled into conversation with one of the Dornish cousins.
The fifth time: he actually managed to complete a sentence—"I wanted to ask if you'd like to see the gardens tomorrow, perhaps after—" but at that exact moment, a dog ran through the hall chased by three small children and a very angry-looking septa, and everyone turned to watch, and when you looked back at Valarr he had given up and was staring at his wine cup with an expression of profound resignation.
The sixth time: you tried to initiate the conversation yourself. "Prince Valarr, I was wondering—" but Prince Baelor chose that exact moment to stand and propose a toast to the happy couple, and by the time everyone had drunk and cheered and drunk again, the moment was lost.
The seventh time: the feast was ending. Guests were rising, stretching, preparing to retire. Valarr stood, took a breath, and turned to you with obvious determination.
"Lady Yn, I—"
"Valarr." King Daeron appeared at his grandson's elbow, looking fond and apologetic. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but your father wishes to speak with you before he retires. Something about the seating arrangements for tomorrow's council meeting."
Valarr looked at his grandfather. He looked at you.
He looked at the ceiling, as if asking the gods why they had abandoned him.
Then he bowed to you—a proper bow, graceful despite his obvious frustration—and followed his grandfather away without having spoken a single word to you all evening.
You watched him go. Huh, you thought. That's strange.
---
The next day, there was a tourney.
Not a proper tourney, apparently—just a small exhibition, some knights practicing for an upcoming event, but the royal family attended anyway because that was what royal families did. You found yourself seated in a shaded stand between your mother and a princess whose name you kept forgetting (Rhaenys? Rhae? Something with an R), watching men in armor crash into each other with enthusiasm and very little grace.
Valarr was down in the lists, mounted on a black horse that you recognized from his letters as the descendant of that white horse he'd loved as a boy. He rode well, you noticed. His armor was black, and he moved like someone who'd been training since he could walk.
Between jousts, he looked up at the stands.
Your eyes met.
He started riding toward your section.
"Oh, look," your mother said brightly. "Here comes your intended. How lovely."
Valarr reached the edge of the stands, dismounted, and removed his helm. His hair was damp with sweat, the silver streak standing out brightly against his forehead. He smiled up at you—that same uncertain, hopeful smile—and opened his mouth.
"PRINCE VALARR!"
A knight came galloping up, armor clanking, horse lathered with sweat. "My prince, you're needed! The hand—"
Valarr closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked at you with an expression of such profound suffering that you nearly laughed.
He bowed. He remounted. He rode away.
You stared after him.
That's seven times, you thought. Eight if you count the feast last night.
The princess beside you—Rhaegar? No, that wasn't right—leaned over. "He's usually more talkative. I'm not sure what's got into him."
"He's usually talkative?"
"Oh, yes. Chatty, even. Drove his tutors mad as a boy, always asking questions." The princess shrugged. "Perhaps he's nervous. First betrothed and all that."
Chatty, you thought. He's supposed to be chatty.
---
That evening, there was a smaller dinner. Just family, supposedly, though your family counted, so it was still nearly twenty people gathered in a solar that was somehow even more opulent than the great hall.
You had dressed carefully. Your best silk, your mother's pearls, a touch of the good perfume. You were determined to speak to your betrothed if it killed you.
Valarr, for his part, looked equally determined.
You were seated across from each other. Close enough to talk, if you leaned in. Far enough that you'd have to raise your voices slightly over the general dinner conversation.
Valarr leaned forward.
You leaned forward.
"I wanted to apologize for—" Valarr began.
"DID YOU SEE THE JOUSTING TODAY?" Prince Matarys had apparently inherited his brother's poor timing. He was leaning around his father, eyes bright with enthusiasm. "SER ARLAN UNHORSED THREE KNIGHTS! THREE! I've never seen anything like it!"
"That's wonderful, Matarys," Valarr said, with the strained patience of an older brother. "I was just—"
"And then Ser Gerold's lance broke, and everyone gasped, and—"
"Matarys." Baelor's voice was gentle but firm. "Let your brother speak."
Matarys subsided, looking abashed.
Valarr took a breath. "Thank you, Father. Lady Yn, I only wanted to say that I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to—"
"Valarr, dear." Queen Myriah smiled at him from the head of the table. "Would you be a love and pass the salt?"
Valarr passed the salt.
He looked at you.
You looked at him.
Nine, you thought. This is actually impressive in its own way.
---
Three more days passed.
Three more days of near-misses and interruptions. Three more days of Valarr opening his mouth at precisely the wrong moment. Three more days of you watching him be pulled away by relatives, servants, urgent messages, unexpected visitors, and once—memorably—a cat that ran across the path just as he was approaching you, causing him to trip and spend several minutes apologizing to both the cat and a nearby septa who had nothing to do with anything.
By the fourth day, you had developed a theory.
It was a ridiculous theory. An impossible theory. A theory that made absolutely no sense.
But you couldn't shake it.
"He's mute," you whispered to your mother that night, after yet another dinner during which Valarr had been interrupted approximately fourteen times.
Your mother, brushing her hair at the dressing table, paused mid-stroke. "What?"
"The prince. Valarr. He's mute."
"He is not mute. I heard him speak at least three times today."
"No, you didn't. You heard him start to speak. You never heard him finish. Did anyone hear him finish? I certainly didn't. He starts sentences and then something happens and he never gets to complete them. It's been four days, Mother. Four days, and I have never heard his voice."
Your mother resumed brushing. "That's because you're both being constantly interrupted by his enormous, overbearing family. It's not because he's mute."
"How do you know? Have you heard him complete a sentence?"
Your mother's hand paused again.
"That's what I thought." You flopped back on your bed, staring at the canopy. "He's mute. He's been mute this whole time. That's why there were no portraits, not because he's ugly, but because he can't speak and they didn't want me to find out until I was already here."
"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Why would they hide that he's mute? It's not exactly something you can conceal forever."
"Maybe they thought I wouldn't notice. Maybe they thought I'd be too dazzled by the dragons and the castle to realize my betrothed never actually says anything."
"Yn."
"Maybe he's not just mute. Maybe he's also illiterate, and someone else wrote those beautiful letters about white horses and beetle collections. Maybe I've been deceived. Maybe this whole marriage is a lie."
"Yn."
"Maybe—"
"Yn." Your mother turned on the bench, fixing you with a look. "He is not mute. You are being dramatic. Go to sleep."
You went to sleep.
You dreamed of a brown-haired prince who opened his mouth and produced only silence.
---
The next morning, you decided to take matters into your own hands.
If you couldn't speak to Valarr in the presence of his family—which seemed physically impossible, given that they materialized out of thin air every time he tried to form a sentence—you would speak to him away from his family.
The gardens. He'd mentioned them often in his letters, telling her how he would have taken her to walks every day. He'd tried to mention them again at the feast, before the dog incident. The gardens were clearly significant to him. If you went to the gardens, surely he would eventually appear.
It was, you admitted, not the most sophisticated plan. But it was a plan, and after four days of frustration, you'd take what you could get.
You found the gardens easily enough, they were exactly where the servant said they'd be, through a covered walkway and down a set of stone steps. They were beautiful, too, full of roses and fountains and carefully trimmed hedges. Not as elaborate as the gardens back home, perhaps, but lovely in their own way.
And there, standing by a fountain in the shape of a dragon, was Valarr.
He was alone. He was looking at the water, one hand resting on the dragon's stone snout. He hadn't heard you approach—the fountain was too loud—so you had a moment to simply look at him.
He was even more beautiful up close. The silver streak in his hair caught the sunlight. His profile was sharp, elegant, exactly the sort of profile that belonged on a coin or a portrait. His shoulders were tense, though. He looked tired.
You cleared your throat.
He spun around.
For a moment, you simply stared at each other.
Then Valarr smiled—that same uncertain, hopeful smile—and opened his mouth.
"Lady Yn. I—"
"Before you say anything," you said quickly, holding up a hand. "I just want you to know that I don't need you to speak. I mean, I'd like to hear your voice eventually, but if you can't—if there's a reason you haven't been able to—it's fine. Really. We can communicate other ways. Writing. Gestures. I'm very good at charades. My cousins used to say I was the best charades player in the family, and we had some very competitive games during the—"
Valarr was staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite read.
"—festivals," you finished lamely. "So. Yes. Whatever you need to tell me, you can tell me however you need to tell me."
There was a pause.
"I'm not mute," Valarr said.
You blinked.
"You're not?"
"I'm not."
"But you never—every time you try to speak, something—and I've been here four days, and I've never heard your voice, and I thought—"
Valarr's lips twitched. "You thought I was mute."
"I thought you might be mute. Yes."
"Because my family keeps interrupting me every time I try to speak to you."
"Because your family keeps interrupting you every time you try to speak to me."
You looked at each other.
Valarr's lips twitched again.
You felt heat rising to your cheeks. "This is embarrassing."
"It's not embarrassing. It's—" He stopped, and then he laughed. It was a warm sound, genuine and unguarded. "It's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, and also completely understandable. I've been trying to speak to you for four days. Four days, and I haven't managed a single complete sentence."
"Seventeen attempts," you said. "I've been counting."
"Seventeen?"
"Eighteen if you count the time with the cat."
Valarr groaned, but he was smiling. "The cat. I tripped over a cat."
"It was very graceful. You apologized to the cat. I've never seen anyone apologize to a cat before."
"The cat looked offended."
"The cat was definitely offended."
You stood there for a moment, grinning at each other like idiots. The fountain burbled. Somewhere, a bird sang.
"I'm glad you're not mute," you said finally"
Valarr stepped closer. "I'm glad that you came looking for me. Despite thinking I might be mute. Despite seventeen interrupted attempts. Despite the cat."
"I almost didn't. I thought about just accepting that I'd never hear your voice and we'd communicate exclusively through written notes for the rest of our lives."
"A romantic tragedy."
"A comedy, really. Two people in love, separated by an overbearing family and a surprising number of cats."
"In love?" Valarr's voice was soft.
You felt your face go warm again. "Well. Potentially. I mean—" You gestured vaguely. "The letters. The horse. The beetle collection. I might have developed a small fondness for the person who wrote those letters. Even if that person turned out to be mute and covered in warts."
"I don't have warts."
"I can see that."
"And I'm not mute."
"I can hear that."
Valarr took your hand.
It was a small thing. Just his fingers curling around yours, warm and gentle. But it felt enormous, standing there in the garden with the roses blooming and the sun warming your faces.
"Yn," he said quietly.
"Yes?"
"I'm going to kiss you now. If that's all right."
"It's more than all right."
He leaned in.
"BROTHER!"
You jumped apart.
Matarys burst through the hedge like a small, enthusiastic cannonball, face flushed with excitement and—yes—a beetle cupped carefully in his hands.
"You have to see this one! It's iridescent! It shines in the sun! I've never seen anything like it! Where have you been? I've been looking everywhere! Grandmother wants you for dinner, she says you're not to be late again, and also there's a message from the Master of Coin about something, and—"
Valarr closed his eyes. You started laughing.
Matarys was still talking.
"—and it's not just any iridescent beetle, it's the rarest kind, the kind that only comes out after rain, and I had to follow it for ages because it kept flying away, and then it landed on a rose bush, and I thought, this is it, this is my moment, and—"
Valarr stood there, eyes closed, hand still loosely holding yours. You could feel the tension in his fingers, the battle between brotherly affection and profound frustration.
You squeezed his hand.
He opened his eyes and looked at you. There was something new in his expression now, a determination that hadn't been there before.
"Matarys," he said.
"—and the way the light catches its wings is like nothing you've ever—"
"Matarys."
His brother finally paused, beetle cupped carefully in both hands, looking up with the innocent confusion of a puppy who doesn't understand why no one is throwing the ball.
"Yes?"
"That's a remarkable beetle."
Matarys beamed.
"And I would very much like to hear all about it. But first—" Valarr turned to you, and there was a glint in his mismatched eyes that made your breath catch. "First, I need to finish something."
He let go of your hand.
For a terrible moment, you thought he was leaving. That Matarys had won again, that the interruption had done its work, that you would be left standing in the garden with nothing but the memory of almost being kissed.
But Valarr didn't walk away.
He stepped closer.
And then his hands were cupping your face, gentle and warm, and his lips were on yours, and the world narrowed to nothing but this: the softness of his mouth, the faint scent of something clean and pleasant, the way your heart stopped and then raced to make up for lost time.
It was a brief kiss. A handful of heartbeats, no more.
But when he pulled back, you were quite certain you would never be the same.
"Finally," you breathed.
Valarr's smile was incandescent. "Seventeen interruptions. I refuse to let it become eighteen."
Behind him, Matarys made a small sound of realization. "Oh. OH. I—should I—do you want me to—" He looked down at his beetle, then back at the two of you, then down at his beetle again. "I'm going to go. With my beetle. Somewhere else."
"That's probably wise," Valarr said, not taking his eyes off you.
Matarys fled. For a moment, you simply looked at each other. The garden was quiet again, save for the fountain and the birds. Your lips were still tingling.
"So," you said. "That happened."
"That happened." Valarr's thumb traced a slow path along your cheekbone. "I've been wanting to do that since the moment I saw you walk into the Great Hall."
"Since then?"
"Since then." His smile turned slightly rueful. "I had a whole speech prepared. About how beautiful you were. About how your letters had been the best part of my days for the past year. About how I hoped you wouldn't be disappointed when you met me in person."
"I was not disappointed."
"Good." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture so tender it made your chest ache. "I was terrified, you know. That you'd take one look at me and—"
"And what? Run screaming from your warts?"
He laughed, that warm unguarded sound you were already coming to love. "I don't have warts."
"I know. I checked. Very thoroughly, just now."
"You checked for warts while I was kissing you?"
"A lady has her priorities."
He was still smiling, but something softer had crept into his expression. "Yn. I'm sorry it took four days. I'm sorry for every interruption, every near-miss, every time I opened my mouth and someone—" He glanced in the direction Matarys had fled. "Someone appeared."
"You can't control your family."
"No. But I can control what I do now." He took your hand again, lacing his fingers through yours. "I'm going to take you on a walk. Tonight. Before dinner."
"Are you?"
"I am. We'll go through the gardens—the real gardens, not just this little corner—and I'll show you all the places I wrote about. The rose arbor where the bees get drunk on nectar and stagger around. The fountain with the fish that my brother tried to catch when he was five. The bench where I sat and read your letters, over and over, until I'd memorized every word."
Your throat felt tight. "You did that?"
"I did that." He squeezed your hand. "And then, if you're willing, I'll take you to dinner. And I'll sit beside you, not across from you, so that when I want to speak to you, I can simply lean over and do so. And if anyone tries to interrupt—"
"Yes?"
"I'll kiss you again. Right there at the table. In front of everyone."
You laughed. "You would not."
"Try me."
The look in his eyes suggested he was absolutely serious.
"I'll hold you to that," you said.
"Please do." He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. "I should go. Matarys is probably waiting with his beetle, and if I don't admire it properly, he'll be hurt. But I'll come for you at sunset. We'll walk. We'll talk. No interruptions."
"Sunset," you agreed.
He smiled, that hopeful, uncertain smile that had made your heart turn over in the Great Hall, and turned to go.
He took three steps.
Turned.
And kissed you again.
This one was longer. Deeper. His hand slid into your hair, and yours found the front of his tunic, and when you finally broke apart, you were both breathing a little faster.
"Just in case," he murmured against your lips.
"In case of what?"
"In case something happens between now and sunset. A falling chandelier. A sudden invasion. Another cat."
"Another cat?"
"The Red Keep has many cats."
You laughed, breathless. "Go. Admire your brother's beetle. I'll be here at sunset."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He kissed your forehead—a soft, reverent thing—and then he was gone, striding through the garden with a new lightness in his step.
You touched your fingers to your lips.
They were still warm.
Sunset, you thought. Sunset couldn't come soon enough.
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