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If there was any sound that brought a smile to The Young Prince's face, it was his wife's voice.
That said much, for smiling was now a rarity to Valarr.
Your words had such a warm, tender lilt; they were like a song. And those words were so often used, the princess always getting caught up in story and conversation.
He loved most especially when you chatted to his limp form in bed, it was like a lullaby.
In recent months, it had been the only thing to calm him when he was absorbed in grief.
It had been just three moons since his father's sudden death, and sometimes he was so hysterical that only your presence and soft sounds could calm him.
This day had been a difficult one, that he spent tending to his grandsire, whose body was rotting from the inside out. His uncle had made the job no easier, being even more closed off than usual, and breaking when his father asked where Baelor was for the third time that day.
Being the heir to the throne was a weight your husband did not feel prepared to bear. It was safe to say that the prince needed you.
A great thing about your habit of babbling was how easy it made it to find you.
If ever anyone wanted to capture princess, they need only press their ear to the ground and listen for the familiar sound of her words.
Your husband often did just that. He struggled with his sight, large crowds and far distances making it blur. The maesters always said it was his mismatched eyes, that they knew not how to work in harmony.
So, instead of relying on his sight, he used his ears. It worked always, just as it did this time.
He had caught you around the waist like a predator, as you waddled helplessly towards the holdfast.
The guards' presence was disregarded as the prince buried his face into his wife's neck for composure, then aided her up the stairs and into their shared chamber.
"It is wondrous that you sensed me." You grinned, looking up at him as he guided you in, shutting the door.
Sensed. Amusing. You always made yourself easy to find.
Heels clicked against the stone as you waddled adorably away from him again. "The babe has been kicking all day!" You exclaimed happily, plopping yourself down on a dark blue chaise with a bright smile.
Valarr could not help but grow a grin at that, regardless of his foul mood. He decided he would hold in his sorrows for now, and let you delight yourself. The giddy energy you always seemed to carry transferred to him. He figured he needed it.
Your husband sat at the foot of the piece of furniture, and picked up your legs, laying them over his lap so that he might be closer to you. There was nothing he needed more than closeness in this moment.
"Did you miss me, sweetling?" He asked quietly, eyes flickering to yours briefly before he reached out to touch your pronounced eighth moon bump.
He loved your belly, its marks and its swell, the home it was for yet another sweet babe, whom he could not wait to meet.
It was often that he found himself distracted of his sadness when he caressed the bump, but then he remembered that this one would never feel what it is to be hugged in grandsire's arms.
"The maesters say the child is very large this time. Healthy as a horse."
Your husband raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment of your words, and dipped his head down to rest against your belly.
Your fingers moved to run through his hair, the pads showing special attention to his silver patch, the most sensitive area of his scalp.
This solemn, silent side of the prince was one that you had latterly become deeply accustomed with.
"Was the day difficult, my love?" The tone of your voice was careful, your face scrunched in concern.
He didn't answer, only sighed and gave a slight nod, splaying his fingers wide across your bump.
A meek voice made itself known. "Father?"
It seemed neither of you had realised that someone was eavesdropping on your conversation.
A small, brown and silver-haired toddler crawled out from behind a pillar, and climbed herself onto the chaise, sat up with a worried pout, reaching out to tap the tip of Valarr's nose.
That always made him laugh. Why wasn't he laughing?
The girl looked to her mother, who encircled her in her hold, encouraging her head against her shoulder.
Vaera resisted it, staying straight up, and reaching her chubby hand to her father's face again, trying to cup it as she so often sees her mother do.
The prince breathed roughly at that. He could not wallow, he had responsibilities. He had a child, for the sake of the gods, and another on the way.
He sighed. "I am just tired, my darling." The words were soft but disingenuous, and your smart daughter saw right through them.
"I miss grandsire too." She said quietly, laying her head on your belly, would be eye to eye with the prince.
Valarr squeezed his eyes shut at that. How was he supposed to stay composed? He simply nodded — one singular nod — and laid an arm over her, rubbing her back to occupy his twitching fingers.
Unending guilt still consumed The Young Prince. A deluge of what ifs that never ceased. What if he had participated instead of his father? What if Baelor had brought his own armour? His own helm, even?
At the same time, he spent his days enraged. The sight of Aerion was enough to make the poised prince snap and scream.
The tender massage of your fingers in his scalp was exactly what he needed to keep just enough control to not shatter into a mess of emotion.
Your daughter continued to stare at him, rubbing her thumb along his cheekbone, when she felt a thump against her own.
There were tears pricking the corners of your eyes by now.
"Little Baelor senses you both." You whispered so you voice would not crack.
Valarr sniffled at that, his hand on your belly moving in quick, desperate circles.
Little Baelor. How much he wished it to be true.
That night, you laid in bed, so tight in your husband's embrace that you wondered if he thought you were going to run away.
He was still in deep thought about your earlier declaration.
A large hand of his cupped the side of your bump, his face buried in your neck.
"Our son… my Baelor." He cried softly, pressing reverent kisses to your shoulder simultaneously.
Time heals all wounds, they say. Valarr was not sure if that was true, for his bereavement had not quenched even the slightest in three moons.
Yet there was one thing he now had, more than yesterday; hope for the future.
For the growth of your warm family, and the weight of a babe, a son with dark hair, and prudent words.
A son who would not replace his grandsire, but honour him, as the great man passed so deserved.