Chapter Text
The solar of the Red Keep was quiet, save for the crackling of the hearth fire that kept the evening chill at bay. Valarr stood by the narrow window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Ever since he was a boy, he has already been accustomed to duty—it was the bread and salt of his existence as Prince Baelor’s son—but this duty felt different.
It was not a battle line or a tourney ground; it was a rest-of-life commitment walking through the door.
He adjusted the collar of his doublet. He knew the political advantages of a match with House Arryn, but he knew nothing of the girl herself.
The heavy oak doors creaked open, drawing his attention instantly.
"Lady Elysse of House Arryn," the guard announced, stepping aside.
Valarr straightened as she entered. She wore the sky-blue colors of her house, high-necked and modest, but it was her face that held him.
She possessed a softness that seemed in danger of being bruised by the harshness of King's Landing. Her hair was a cascade of warm brown waves, pinned back loosely to frame a heart-shaped face.
When she lifted her gaze to meet his, he saw eyes of siren brown—deep, arresting, and currently filled with a nervous shimmer.
She hesitated near the threshold, her hands gripping the fabric of her skirt. She looked ready to bolt if given the chance.
Valarr stepped forward, keeping his movements slow and deliberate, offering her a reassuring, albeit small, smile.
"Lady Elysse," he said, bowing his head in courtly respect. "Welcome to the Red Keep. I hope the journey from the Vale was not overly tiring."
Elysse dropped into a deep curtsy, her movements graceful despite the trembling he could see in her hands.
"My Prince," she replied, her voice soft and melodious, barely carrying across the stone floor. She straightened slowly, her gaze flickering to his boots before being brave enough to meet his eyes again. "The journey was... long. The Kingsroad is not as steep as the Giant's Lance, but it seems to stretch on forever."
She managed a weak, polite smile, though the corner of her lip quivered.
Valarr moved to the small round table near the hearth and poured a goblet of watered wine. "The Vale has a beauty that makes the rest of the realm seem flat and dusty in comparison, I am told. I fear King's Landing may be a disappointment to you. It is crowded, loud, and smells of things best left unmentioned."
He extended the goblet to her. It was an offer of peace, not just refreshment.
Elysse took a few tentative steps forward, the silk of her skirts rustling in the quiet room. Her fingers brushed his as she took the cup, her skin cool against his warmth.
"I am not disappointed," she whispered, taking a small sip.
She looked at him then, really looked at him, studying his face with a curiosity that momentarily overtook her shyness. "You... you do not look as I expected, my lord. The stories say Targaryens are all silver and violet."
Valarr let out a short, self-deprecating laugh, running a hand through his brown hair. "Ah. Yes. My mother’s blood runs strong in me. I am afraid I lack the dragon’s coloring. I hope that is not a disappointment, either?"
Elysse’s eyes widened, realizing she might have given offense. "Oh, no! No, I did not mean—"
She stopped, biting her lip, a flush rising on her cheeks. "It makes you seem... more real. Less like a statue in a sept. It is comforting."
Valarr watched her over the rim of his own goblet, the ghost of a smile lingering on his lips. Her admission—that his lack of Valyrian features was comforting—was the first honest thing anyone had said to him in days.
To the court, his brown hair was a dull disappointment compared to the shining silver of the king, or the wild, dangerous brightness of his cousin Aerion. To this girl, it was merely human.
"You are kind to say so, my lady," Valarr said quietly.
He set his goblet down on the heavy oak table and gestured toward the pair of high-backed chairs positioned near the hearth. "Please, sit. You have been standing for hours, no doubt. The King’s justice is swift, but his court ceremonies are agonizingly slow."
Elysse hesitated only a moment before moving to the chair. She sat with the practiced grace of a highborn lady, arranging her sky-blue skirts around her, but Valarr noticed the way her knuckles remained white where she gripped the armrests.
She looked like a bird perched on a branch that was too swaying and unstable, ready to take flight at the first sudden noise.
Valarr took the seat opposite her, leaning forward slightly, his elbows on his knees, trying to make himself less imposing.
The firelight played across her face, catching the gold in her warm brown waves and illuminating the siren depth of her eyes. They were truly striking—eyes that could pull a man in and drown him if he wasn't careful.
Yet, behind that beauty, he saw a profound loneliness that mirrored his own.
"I know," Valarr began, his voice dropping to a low, serious register, "that this was not your choice. To leave the Eyrie, the clean air of the mountains, for this... pit of vipers."
Elysse looked down at her lap, her eyelashes casting long shadows on her cheeks. "My father says it is a great honor. To wed the grandson of the King. To be... a future Queen."
"Does it feel like an honor?" Valarr asked gently. "Or does it feel like a sentence?"
Her head snapped up, her eyes wide with shock at his candor. For a moment, she looked terrified, perhaps wondering if this was a test of her loyalty.
But in Valarr’s blue eyes, she found only patience.
"It feels..." She paused, searching for the words, her voice trembling. "It feels far away. The Eyrie is so high up. You can see the whole world, but no one can touch you. Here... the walls are high, but I feel... exposed."
"I understand," Valarr said, and he meant it.
After all, he often felt exposed, constantly measured against the impossible standard of his father.
"King’s Landing is a beast that never sleeps,” he continued. “But the Red Keep has its quiet corners. And you are not alone here, Elysse."
He used her given name for the first time, testing the weight of it. It sounded soft, like the girl herself.
"I know we are strangers," he continued, leaning back and spreading his hands in a gesture of openness. "I know that when you woke up this morning, I was just a name on a scroll, a political alliance forged by men who will never have to share a bed or a life. But I would like to make you a promise, if I may."
Elysse watched him, her breath hitching slightly. "A promise, my Prince?"
"Valarr," he corrected gently. "Please. When it is just us, let it be Valarr."
He waited for her to nod before continuing. "My promise is this: I will not demand from you what you are not ready to give. I know the stories of my house—madness and fire and blood. But I am not a dragon in that way. I am a man who wishes to know his wife. I want you to feel safe within these walls. If you wish for silence, I will give you silence. If you wish to speak of the Vale and your falcons, I will listen. We have been bound together by duty, but friendship... friendship is something we can build on our own terms."
The tension in Elysse’s shoulders seemed to melt away, layer by layer. She saw the earnestness in his face, the blue eyes that held no malice, only a gentle curiosity.
The fear in her eyes softened into something warmer—gratitude, and perhaps the beginnings of trust.
"I..." she hesitated. But Valarr nodded slowly, a wordless encouragement.
She cleared her throat, her voice gaining a fraction more strength. "I enjoy reading. Histories, mostly. And I miss the sound of the wind. It sounds different here. Angry."
"Then I shall find you the quietest gardens where the wind only whispers," Valarr vowed solemnly. "And my father has a library that puts the Citadel to shame. I will show you tomorrow, if you like."
A genuine smile broke across Elysse’s face, transforming her. It was radiant, breathtaking, and it made Valarr’s breath catch in his throat.
"I would like that very much," she whispered. "Valarr."
The sound of his name on her lips felt like a victory greater than any tourney prize.
Outside, the city of King's Landing churned with its intrigue and filth, but in the solar, with the fire popping and the wine settled in their bellies, the distance between the Dragon and the Falcon had closed, just a little.
The next morning, the sun beat down hard upon the Red Keep, baking the pale red stone until the air shimmered with heat. Valarr waited for Elysse at the foot of the Maidenvault’s winding stairwell, dismissing his guards so that he stood alone.
He wanted her to see him, not the crest of the dragon embroidered on a dozen chests.
When she emerged, the sunlight caught her brown hair, turning the waves into spun copper. She wore a gown of cream silk with the falcon of Arryn stitched in silver thread over her heart—a reminder of where she came from, and perhaps, a shield against where she was now.
"Valarr," she greeted him, dipping into a curtsy. She seemed less skittish today, though her fingers still toyed nervously with the lacing of her sleeve. "You remembered."
"I am a man of my word, Lady Elysse," he replied, offering her his arm. "And I believe I promised you a sanctuary."
She took his arm, her grip light but firm. As they began to walk through the bustling corridors of the holdfast, Valarr felt the tension radiating from her.
The Red Keep was a hive of activity. Servants scuttled by with fresh rushes and laundry, knights in white cloaks stood like statues at archways, and courtiers whispered behind their hands as the pair passed.
Valarr noticed how Elysse kept her gaze lowered, shrinking slightly whenever a loud voice echoed off the vaulted ceilings.
So, he adjusted his stride to match hers, slowing his pace, and subtly shifted his body to place himself between her and the prying eyes of the court.
"Ignore them," he murmured, leaning his head toward hers. "They are like the seagulls in the harbor. Loud, messy, and ultimately of no consequence."
A small giggle escaped her lips—a bright, chiming sound that seemed to startle even her. "My father calls them vultures."
"Your father is a wise man," Valarr chuckled.
They were nearing the entrance to the Royal Library when a shadow fell across their path. A figure stepped out from behind a tapestry depicting Aegon’s Conquest, blocking their way.
It was Aerion.
Valarr felt his jaw tighten instantly. His cousin was everything Valarr was not: daring, lithe, and possessing the classic, terrifying beauty of Old Valyria. His hair was silver-gold, his eyes a deep violet, and he wore a doublet of black velvet slashed with red flames.
He was smiling, but the expression did not reach his eyes.
"Cousin," Aerion drawled, his voice like oil sliding over stone. He looked Elysse up and down with a laziness that bordered on insult. "And this must be the little bird from the mountains. The Falcon that’s come to nest among dragons."
Elysse stiffened, her hand tightening painfully on Valarr’s forearm. She looked at Aerion’s violet eyes and paled.
"Prince Aerion," Valarr said, his voice flat and hard. He did not bow. "We are on our way to the library. Step aside."
Aerion laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "The library? Always so dull, Valarr. I would have thought you’d take your pretty new toy to the tiltyard. Show her how a real dragon fights. Oh, but wait... you favor books over lances, don't you? How... common."
Valarr stepped forward, shielding Elysse completely with his body. He was shorter than Aerion, but he possessed the broad shoulders of his father and a quiet, immovable strength.
"I said, step aside, Aerion," Valarr commanded, his voice dropping an octave. "Do not make me repeat myself."
For a heartbeat, violence hung in the air, thick and suffocating.
Then, Aerion’s smirk widened. He stepped back, sketching a mocking bow. "As you command, Prince Valarr. Enjoy your dusty scrolls."
He swept past them, his cloak billowing.
Valarr did not relax until his cousin’s footsteps had faded down the corridor.
He turned immediately to Elysse.
"I apologize," he said, his brow furrowed with concern. "Aerion is... difficult. He enjoys provoking fear. It is the only way he knows how to feel powerful."
Elysse was pale, her eyes wide, but she looked up at Valarr with gratitude.
"You stood up to him," she whispered. "He looks... dangerous."
"He is," Valarr admitted grimly. "But as long as I draw breath, he will not trouble you. That is another promise."
He guided her to the heavy ironwood doors of the library and pushed them open.
The contrast was immediate. The noise of the court vanished, replaced by a hallowed, dust-moted silence. The air smelled of parchment, leather, and dried ink. Towering shelves of dark wood stretched up into the gloom of the ceiling, packed with thousands of volumes. Shafts of light pierced through high, narrow windows, illuminating dancing specks of dust.
Elysse let out a breath she seemed to have been holding since she left the Vale. She stepped away from him, her eyes tracking the shelves with wonder.
"Oh," she breathed. "It’s... it’s endless."
"The collected knowledge of the Targaryen dynasty," Valarr said, watching her face light up. The fear from the hallway melted away, replaced by the innocent joy of a girl who had found her playground. "And the previous kings, too. There are scrolls here from before the Doom."
Elysse walked to a nearby table where a massive tome lay open. She ran her fingertips reverently over the page. "In the Eyrie, the library is small. I have read every book three times. But this... I could spend a lifetime here and never finish."
"You have a lifetime," Valarr said softy.
She turned to look at him, her hand resting on the book. The sunlight from a high window caught her full in the face, illuminating the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. She looked ethereal, a creature of light in a room of shadows.
"Will you read with me?" she asked, a tentative hope in her voice. "I... I do not like to be alone. Not yet."
Valarr felt a tug in his chest, a sudden and fierce affection for this gentle creature his grandfather had bound him to.
He walked over to the shelf, pulled down a history of the Dance of the Dragons—a tragic tale, but one of history nonetheless—and brought it to the table.
"I will stay as long as you like," Valarr said, pulling out a chair for her.
They sat side by side as the morning wore on.
At first, they read in silence, the only sound the turning of pages.
But slowly, Elysse began to point things out—an illustration of a dragon she found beautiful, a passage of High Valyrian she couldn't quite translate. Valarr leaned in to help her, his shoulder brushing hers.
He found that he wasn't reading the words on his own page.
He was watching her.
He watched the way her brow furrowed when she concentrated, the way she tucked a loose strand of wavy hair behind her ear, the way her breathing slowed into a peaceful rhythm.
For the first time in his life, Valarr Targaryen did not feel overshadowed. He did not feel like the “brown dragon” or the disappointment.
Sitting there in the quiet dust, with the scent of lavender rising from her hair, he felt simply like a man who had found something precious, and he would fight the whole world—Aerion included—to keep it safe.
The tourney grounds outside King's Landing were a riot of noise and color, a sharp contrast to the hushed sanctity of the library. The air smelled of roasted meat, horse manure, and the copper tang of blood.
Valarr sat atop his black destrier, his helmet cradled in the crook of his arm. He wore black armor, the three-headed dragon enameled in red upon his breastplate, but no favor fluttered from his lance—until Elysse stepped forward from the royal box.
The crowd quieted, murmuring.
The Falcon of Arryn approached the Dragon.
She reached up, her face pale but determined, and tied a ribbon of sky-blue silk around his vambrace.
"Ride well," she whispered, her fingers lingering against the cold steel of his armor. "And come back to me."
"I will," Valarr promised.
He lowered his visor, the world narrowing to a thin slit of sunlight and dust.
His opponent was a massive knight from the Stormlands, Ser Gowen Baratheon, a man who had unhorsed three opponents already with brute strength.
The commons cheered for the Baratheon. They loved size and fury.
Valarr, smaller and quieter, received only polite applause.
Let them clap, Valarr thought, gripping his lance. I am my father’s son.
The trumpet blasted.
They charged. The thunder of hooves vibrated through Valarr’s bones. Ser Gowen rode like a falling boulder, aiming to smash Valarr from the saddle by sheer mass.
But Valarr rode like water. At the last second, he shifted his weight, leaning deep into the saddle.
Crack.
The Baratheon’s lance glanced off Valarr’s shield, the wood shattering harmlessly.
Valarr’s aim, however, was true.
The tip of his lance struck Ser Gowen square in the gorget. The force was immense. The giant Stormlander was lifted clear out of his stirrups, flailing in the air before crashing into the dirt with a sound like a collapsing smithy.
Valarr reined his horse in, wheeling around as the crowd erupted. It was a clean, technical, perfect tilt.
He raised his lance to the royal box, to the spot of sky-blue amidst the red and black.
He had won.
But as the adrenaline faded, the throb in his shoulder where the shield had absorbed the blow turned into a screaming ache.
An hour later, inside his personal pavilion, the roar of the crowd was a muffled hum. Valarr sat on the edge of a camp stool, stripped to his waist. His squire had removed the armor, revealing the cost of victory.
A massive, angry bruise, blooming purple and black, covered his left shoulder and ribs. There was a shallow gash across his bicep where a splinter from the shattered lance had found a gap in the mail.
He hissed as he tried to wipe the blood away with a rough cloth.
"Leave it," a soft voice commanded from the tent flap.
Valarr looked up, startled.
Elysse stood there, a basin of steaming water in her hands and a satchel of bandages slung over her shoulder. She had slipped away from the feast, her fine silk dress looking out of place amidst the straw and canvas.
"Elysse," Valarr breathed, moving to stand, but a spasm of pain in his ribs forced him back down. "You should not be here. The blood... it is not a sight for a lady."
"I am a daughter of the Vale," she said, her voice firmer than he had ever heard it. She set the basin down on a chest and dipped a clean linen cloth into the water. "We are not frightened by a little blood."
She moved to stand between his knees. Up close, she smelled of wildflowers, cutting through the scent of sweat and liniment. Her eyes were dark with worry, scanning the tapestry of bruises on his skin.
"He hurt you," she murmured, wringing out the cloth.
"I won," Valarr said, a hint of boyish pride breaking through his pain. "Did you see?"
"I saw," she said softly. She pressed the warm, damp cloth to the gash on his arm.
Valarr flinched, his muscles seizing, but he didn't pull away.
"You rode beautifully. But I confess, I forgot to breathe until you were the one still on the horse,” she murmured.
She worked with gentle, precise movements, cleaning the dried blood from his skin. Her hands were cool and soft against his fever-hot flesh.
Valarr watched her, mesmerized.
No one had ever touched him with such tenderness—not the maesters with their cold chains, not the master-at-arms with his gruff lessons.
"I wanted to prove something," Valarr admitted, his voice rasping. He looked down at her hands working on his arm. "They look at me and they see the brown hair. They see a man smaller than Baelor Breakspear. I wanted them to see a dragon."
Elysse stopped.
She looked up, her face inches from his. Her eyes searched his, seeing the insecurity that lay beneath the armor.
"The color of your hair does not hold the lance, Valarr," she said fiercely. She moved her hand to rest flat against his uninjured chest, right over his heart. "This does. And today, you were the tallest man in the lists."
Valarr’s breath hitched. He reached up, his hand trembling slightly, and covered her small hand with his own large, calloused one.
"Elysse," he whispered.
"Hush," she said, though her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink.
She pulled away gently to pick up a pot of healing salve. "We must bind these ribs, or you will not be able to dance at the wedding feast."
"I care little for dancing," Valarr grunted as she began to apply the salve. It stung, then cooled. "Unless it is with you."
"Then you must heal," she countered, moving around him to wrap the linen bandages around his torso.
She had to lean close to pass the roll of bandage around him. Her hair brushed against his bare shoulder, sending shivers down his spine that had nothing to do with pain.
For a moment, her cheek rested against his back as she reached around, effectively embracing him.
Valarr closed his eyes, leaning back slightly into her touch.
In the dim light of the tent, with the pain dulling under her care, the arranged marriage no longer felt like a duty. It felt like the only thing that mattered.
"Thank you," he said, his voice thick with emotion.
Elysse tied off the bandage and stepped back to inspect her handiwork. She smiled, a small, shy thing that lit up the tent.
"You are my husband-to-be, Valarr," she said simply. "Your pain is my pain. And your victory... that is mine, too."
Valarr stood up then, ignoring the protest of his bruised ribs. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the knuckles reverently.
"Then I shall win every tourney from here to the Wall," he vowed, "if it earns me that smile."