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It was a rare feat for Valarr to have enough free time to allow himself a moment of respite.
As second in line for the throne, duty did not only mandate his actions and dictate his thoughts, but occupied most of his waking hours as well.
He had woken, dressed, and discussed grain trading with visiting lords before even breaking his fast. He had reconvened with his father about succession matters in the solar, sire and son conversing over autumn pears, roasted fingerfish and honeyed figs. There had been small moments of calm, unhurried chatting: Valarr worrying about his father’s recovery after the injury sustained during the tourney at Ashford Meadow, and Baelor inquiring about Valarr’s daughter, who was just three days away from celebrating her fifth name day.
And then, once all the courses had been consumed and the conversation had mellowed down, he had gone back to reuniting with the council.
“Pst! Pst, father!” The sound comes after the hours have slipped through: a quiet, tender voice speaking from under the thick mahogany of the Painted Table. For a moment, he debates pinches himself to confirm he has not yet drifted to sleep. Then comes a giggle, followed by a gentle tug on his trousers, and he knows he is awake. “Father, you must come outside with me at once! It is of the upmost importance!”
Valarr smiles, rolls his eyes with fondness, and lets out a breath. Lord Ronel Pennrose, master of coin, drags on upon contracts and agreements, much to the boredom of everyone present.
A second tug, slightly more insistent, and another giggle. Valarr leans down and grins when met with a pair of mismatched eyes that shine up at him with mirth.
“I am holding council, my heart,” he says, softly. “And you, princess, are supposed to be with your septa. How else will you learn how to read?”
Viserra laughs again, the sound pure and melodic like bells chiming amid a summer breeze. She crosses her legs and leans upward, inching closer.
“That is such a bore,” she whispers, conspiratorially. “There is something I need to show you, with urgency! Father, I beg!”
Valarr pretends to give it a moment of thought, pursing his lips with a quiet hum, but knows there is not a single thing he could ever deny Viserra. Not when she bears your smile and holds half of his very soul on the palm of her hand.
And by the Seven, does she know it.
He winks at Viserra, and she disappears with another giggle, crawling back to the edge of the table before she stands up and skips towards the other end of it. There, she grins up at her grandsire, and Baelor leans down to press a kiss to the top of her head before she continues on her merry way.
“If I may be excused,” Valarr says, standing from his seat. “There is a matter I must attend to. It is of the utmost importance, I was told.”
Baelor nods, eyes soft and knowing despite the setting, and Valarr waits for no other response before he trails after Viserra. His daughter is a whirlwind, light brown hair meticulously braided, dashing through the quiet halls of Dragonstone with a wild smile adorning her tender face. She hums; a mellow sound, some lullaby that had stuck to her from the nights when you wait by her side until she is sure the nightmares will not come. The melody, and the bitter memories it evokes, of the fear in her eyes and the terror in her voice, threaten to swallow him whole.
She picks up the pace ever so slightly, and Valarr can only tread after her: never quite catching up, but always keeping close. He supposes so to be woes of parenting.
She guides him through the labyrinthine layout with ease until the faint scent of pine reaches Valarr’s nose, darting through the grass with her father close on her toes. Valarr takes a breath and lets himself exist nowhere else but in the moment at hand, and as he exhales, he all but swears the sunlight shines warmer upon his skin.
“Father, quickly!” Viserra laughs, twirling on her toes before she bends down to pick a wildflower. She holds it tight inside her fist, yielding it like a sword. Oh, how much would he give for her to only ever know the softness of flowers, and not the sharpness of steel or the burn of wildfire. “What I ought to show you is —”
Her words, breathless and light, are interrupted by another voice. A deeper one in its years, yet just as sweet. Valarr’s smile only grows wider at the sound.
“Viserra,” you say, sitting only a few steps further, and set down a piece of fabric on the grass by your side. An embroidery project, clearly meant as a favor for Valarr to wear whenever the next tourney came around: soft green velvet, the center of it depicting a red dragon laying upon a field of golden flowers. A tribute to both his house and yours, and a celebration of your union. “You, little lady, told me you were fetching Dreamfyre from your chambers, not pulling your father away from his duties.”
Viserra flushes a deep shade of red, but the look on her face bears no trace of repentance at all. She takes a moment to gather her thoughts, as if choosing the words that would appease you best.
“But father was awfully bored! Lord Pennybottom —”
“Pennrose, dear.”
“— was about to talk him to death, I swear!” She says, dramatically, raising her hands up her head in full theatrics as if to emphasize the weight of her words. She pays no mind to your correction. She is, after all, a princess. “And, besides, Dreamfyre was taking napping, mother. I had not the heart to wake her when she slept so soundly. She would have been very cross with me when she woke, and I would not have it!”
Your eyes meet Valarr’s as he steps closer, and his heart beats faster inside his chest. He picks Viserra up in his arms and she squeals in delight, resting her head against her father’s shoulder. He walks until he reaches you, steps certain in their path, his body finding a home next to yours.
“I see, then, that our princess has saved you from quite the dreadful fate, my love,” you say, smiling up at your husband from where you rest.
Valarr laughs, shaking his head. He turns his head to kiss Viserra’s cheek before he sets her down again, and she quickly flutters away towards a nearby flowerbed. “That she has, indeed. She, as always, has but brightened my day as nothing else ever could. Although she ought to be with her septa at this time, no?”
You hum, nodding your head, and extend a hand up in his direction. He takes it, your touch warm and gentle, and then lowers himself onto his knees, moving until he’s sitting by your side.
“She escaped her, somehow,” you reply, rolling your eyes as your smile grows with adoration. “I was trying to convince her to practice upon her needlework instead, but she bolted away with the claim of retrieving Dreamfyre from inside the castle.”
“She cares far too much for the creature,” Valarr smiles, and kicks his boots of his feet before he lays down on his back. He does not let go of your hand as he does it, letting it rest on top of his chest. “I have noticed she has carried it in her lap during supper, all through the week. She is absolutely besotted with the little thing, I swear.”
“Might I remind you, husband, you gifted her the kitten,” is all you say, words falling from your lips as he brings your hand up to his own, and presses a kiss to your knuckles.
Valarr kisses your knuckles again, and returns your hand to lay over his heart, as if guarding it. “She asked me for a pet. I gave her a cat with a soft coat of fur, and she named it after a dragon.”
You laugh, softly. “Well, she is fire and blood, and every bit your daughter. And you can never deny her of anything she asks of you, it seems.”
Your husband hums, eyes still set on yours, full of the most fervent devotion. He tugs on your hand, beckoning you closer, and you shift until you’re laying down by his side, posture mirroring his. You move closer, warmth radiating off your form, and the entire world quiets around him. He is not inside the castle sitting on a throne left to him by his father, and oil has not yet been placed upon his brow. He is not a prince, not an heir, not a pawn on a board; no, he’s something else. He’s something that exists in a world that begins with your smile and ends with Viserra’s laugh, and that is worth far more than any crown ever could.
Viserra runs towards you again, plopping in between the both of you and resting her small head over your arm as she babbles on and on about fireflies this and butterflies that. She speaks of how she had found a bird’s feather on the ground when she made towards the kitchens in the morning on a quest for honeycakes baked with sweet berries before her lessons (her septa had allowed her to have a couple, she promises!). She talks of Dreamfyre: of how her kitten, named after a dragon, had bravely spent the entire night curled up against her side to keep the nightmares from coming.
Valarr’s eyes meet yours over her head. Some of her hair has started to fall from her braids, fluttering softly against the wind, and she is holding a small bouquet of pink wildflowers in her hands.
“No, my love,” Valarr speaks, gaze never leaving yours, and he smiles. “It seems that I, whenever the both of you are concerned, can never find it in myself to deny you of a thing.”