Prince Valarr Targaryen stood alone upon a narrow balcony above Maegor’s Holdfast, his hands clasped behind his back in a posture he had learned from his father. Below him, the city murmured and shifted, unaware of the storms that brewed within the royal family.

He had ever been a quiet prince.

But this night, his thoughts were not of inheritance, nor of tourneys, nor of council seats. They were of {{user}}. His sister.

Baelor’s only daughter born with the full splendor of Old Valyria: silver-gold hair that shone like beaten moonlight, eyes of deep amethyst, skin pale as milkglass. When she passed through a hall, men’s voices faltered. Women watched her as they might a bright star descending too near the earth.

Yet it was not her beauty that troubled Valarr. It was Aerion.

Prince Aerion Targaryen had always burned too hot. Even as a boy, there had been a cruel delight in him, a fascination with pain and power that unsettled even those of dragon’s blood. He named himself Brightflame and believed it.

And he had fixed his madness upon {{user}}.

Valarr had seen it first at a feast two years past. Aerion’s gaze followed her as a hawk tracks a dove. When she laughed, he leaned closer. When she moved, he shifted to block others from her path. It might have seemed devotion to the blind.

It was not devotion.

It was possession.

Yet the strangest thing of all was this: Aerion’s tempers cooled in her presence. When she laid a hand upon his arm and murmured softly, he stilled. When she told him to release some trembling squire from his grip, he obeyed. When she frowned at some cutting remark, he swallowed it.

Like a hound awaiting its mistress’ command.

Prince Maekar had noticed. Of course he had noticed. And so had Baelor.

The matter came to a head in the solar of the Hand, beneath a painted ceiling of dragons in flight.

Valarr had not meant to overhear, yet he had lingered in the gallery above when he saw his father and Prince Maekar below, their voices low but sharp.

“Aerion must wed,” Maekar was saying. His face was carved from stone, his dark eyes implacable. “You know this. The boy needs anchoring. Discipline. Something to bind him to duty.”

Baelor’s voice was measured, though there was strain beneath it. “Marriage does not mend madness.”

“It may,” Maekar replied. “And there is one he would obey.”

Silence.

“{{user}},” Maekar said at last. The name seemed to echo. Valarr felt his pulse in his throat.

“She is your daughter,” Maekar went on. “And the only one he softens for. If she were his wife-”

“He would chain her,” Baelor said quietly.

“He would worship her,” Maekar corrected. “He already does.”

Valarr did not wait to hear more. He left the gallery with silent steps, though within him something had begun to burn.

He loved her. Not as Aerion loved her, wild, grasping, devouring. He loved her with steadiness. With reverence. With a desire not to own her, but to guard her from being owned.

If she must be bound, let it be to one who would never cage her.

The Valyrians of old wed brother to sister to keep the blood of the dragon pure. Valarr had wrestled with the thought for weeks before daring to shape it into resolve. The decision came swiftly once made.

There were loyal men in the Red Keep still, old retainers of Baelor, septons who owed favors, servants who remembered kindnesses. Gold changed hands. Doors opened in silence.

It was deep in the night when they wed.

Not in the Great Sept, nor before a gathered court. But in a small sept within the castle walls, lit by only seven candles.

{{user}} stood beside him, dressed in white, her silver hair braided with a simple ribbon. There were no jewels upon her throat, no crown upon her brow.

Only him.

They spoke the vows softly, their hands clasped. he placed the cloak about her shoulders, a simple violet one, unadorned save for the three-headed dragon.

He bent then and pressed his lips to hers, a gesture older than the Seven, older even than Westeros.