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Going to the tourney at Ashford was possibly the worst thing you could imagine.
At this stage in your pregnancy, your belly was much swollen, and the babe inside liked to kick and be felt. Everything had become so real so quick, and this event — for something as mundane as the daughter of a minor lord's name day — was utterly unnecessary.
Mostly because it drew the second in line to the throne to his craft. There was nothing you hated more than seeing your husband's name in the lists.
Valarr was the heir to the heir, a renowned knight, it was not as if he would sit on the sidelines and watch everyone else try their hand at the lance.
But to do so while you were in your current state, was in your opinion; cruel.
Outside your chambers, everyone would think you happy and proud… inside the stone walls was a different story.
"You act as if I make a jest! Valarr, you are willingly galloping your horse towards a sharpened lance as if you are not going to be a father in a moon!"
You spat bitterly, face flushed with anger and a fear you would not admit to.
The prince stepped forward, his black and red tunic hugging his body in a tailored way that vexed you just to watch it.
"My love, can we please-"
"I refuse to hear it." You shot back as he came closer, crossing your arms over his chest, threatening him to touch you in any way.
The silver streak in his hair distracted your gaze for a moment, but you focused again, and turned away from him.
He sighed and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, his other rubbing his forehead as he paced behind you.
"It is not as simple as you paint it, wife. House Targaryen must be seen to uphold itself. We are in peril, now more than yesterday."
"House Targaryen is upholding itself." The silk of your skirts spun as you did, looking up to face him.
"It has your mad cousin to take out any competition! And, if Aerion is lucky enough to get his way, you will be taken out as well!" You sarcasmed — though you weren't exactly joking.
The thought had passed through your mind the entire ride to Ashford. As the babe pressed heavy against your pelvis, your head was filled with pictures of your husband dead and trampled, coughing on blood that would drown him.
Those thoughts were plaguing you right now. The blush of your bottom lip began to quiver, and you looked away from him, clasping your hands over your belly as if to protect the sweet child inside from your worries.
The prince looked down at you with soft, guilty eyes, taking the risk of touching your arms. When you didn't shrug him off, he pulled you close, your head against his chest.
"I do not do this to frighten you." He murmured against your hair, inhaling the scent of the gourmand orange oil that you not only coated your strands with, but now your stretched stomach.
A weak sob left you, then a sniffle. Your arms wrapped tightly around his middle, but you were frustrated by your stomach, and the inability to get any real contact and comfort.
"I am sorry, my darling." The prince said solemnly, rubbing slow circles on your lower back, the place that ached near constantly these days.
Another, louder sob left you.
It was two hours later that the sun had set; that your husband would be risking his life while you created one.
The crowd across the rows was screaming in anticipation, the fires lit around the fields as if it were hell itself. Horses reared on each edge, ready to bolt.
The royal family sat in the lord's box. On your left was your husband's uncle Maekar, who was not only a moody prick, but tensely silent. Which was not at all helping the moment.
Thankfully, you had your father by law on your right, whose presence and Lord Ashford's were separating you from Aerion.
As the commentator announced his name, you grimaced, forcing your eyes to stay open.
"Son of Baelor! Second in line to the Iron Throne! Prince of House Targaryen! Prince Valarr!"
Baelor reached his hand to hold one of yours, meeting your worried gaze with a comforting one, before focusing back once again.
The pillows beneath you suddenly felt lumpy, and you shifted with great worry. Your free hand cupped your belly, feeling butterflies that were more like worms as the babe shifted.
The cautious gaze of yours went to your husband. His helm was on, his armour shining under firelight. His horse, Posy, jumping about in want for speed.
Then, with a sharp "HA!" from her rider, she and all of her counterparts began galloping towards one another.
The sounds of clashing were loud, and made your face tense and quiver.
By the end of the third tilt, all were fallen but two.
The prince, and Ser Hightower. Each took a brief moment of respite for water to be thrown on the horses, giving you a second to breathe.
"Watch this time." Baelor murmured, eyes set on his son.
The gems pinned in your hair glistened as your head shook. "I cannot stomach it."
"You can, dear girl." He squeezed your hand.
For some reason you could not explain, you obliged, and set your eyes on the prince.
The crowd was screeching, yet Valarr heard nothing but his own heartbeat.
He imagined it were the babe's — late at night when the keep was silent enough to hear a rat scurry across the floor, he would press his ear to your taut stomach, and listen to the dull, near whisper of the beat.
If there ever lived a man confident in himself and his abilities, it was your dear husband. He did not think himself immortal, but he had things to live for. He was to be a father.
Posy lurched forward as he kicked his heels into her sides. The lance heavy but effortless in his hand.
Speed and screech filled his ears, his violet eyes locked on Hightower's crest in the centre of his chest, just where he would land that pole.
The prince was not stupid enough to take his eyes off of his target, but you were in his thoughts as he jabbed the lance out early, knocking the knight from his horse so effortlessly it seemed staged.
You were in his heart when he galloped around this ring just once, stopping dead in front of the Lord's box.
One strong arm pulled off his iron helm, revealing his sweaty hair, the silver fading into brown. Thank the gods for that hair.
"My Lord." He nodded dutifully at Ashford, who gave him an impressed nod.
Then, he looked at you. His wife was still shaken, the poor thing clutching both the babe and his father for dear life. The Prince's expression softened, giving you a gentle smile so quick that it went unnoticed to all but you, and galloped off.
Later, you laid in bed, curled up naked after he apologised for your anxiety with his words and his body.
He pressed kisses along your jaw with a self-satisfied smirk, then relaxed, rubbing over your belly.
"You are my Queen of Love and Beauty." The tone of his voice was quiet and rough, the afterglow still bewitching him.
Once-relaxed fingers trailed around his navel, touching the patch of silver hair then stilling. "We are not on joking terms."
The man whose arms you laid in was a knight for good reason. He was chivalrous and kind, genteel almost to a fault. When he would win this tourney, you were sure that he would pass you by to place the crown on Lady Ashford's head.
It was not as if he held any affection for the girl, but it still irritated you. The gentle curves of your body moved as you shifted your head more onto his shoulder.
"I do not joke, princess." He murmured, quiet and sincere. "That ring of flowers will sit on your pretty head by the end of this week."
The deft fingers covering your middle spread out, gripping it lovingly. "Mother to my child, stoker of my heart's fire." He pressed a wet kiss to the side of your temple.
In his embrace, everything always felt calmer. As he murmured sweet nothings in your ear, and rubbed your sore hips to help you drift off, you reminded yourself that you would never be able to stay angry at your dear husband.
Valarr was a man of honour and duty. Handsome, powered, and true. No matter your disagreements, he would face and resolve them with tenderness.
He wore a lazy smile as his fingers tapped along your belly, trying to get some sort of response. "Kick for your father, come."
You loved your sweet prince, just as he did you.