{{user}} sat by the window, the cold moonlight carving the hollows of her cheeks. She could still hear her father’s voice echoing from the day the pact was made: “You will be marrying Valarr Targaryen.”

At the time, it felt like a dream. Valarr was the Silver Prince, the realm’s darling, with eyes like deep blue oceans and a face as lovely as a song. On their wedding night, she had wept for joy.

Now, she wept for a different reason. The midwives had already come and gone, whisking away the blood-soaked sheets and the remnants of what should have been an heir. For the third time, her womb had failed her. It had not held the babe for more than three moons before the bleeding began.

Another failure.

In the Red Keep, a princess without a prince in her belly was a precarious thing. Would Baelor grow impatient? Would the realm declare her barren? A prince must have an heir; this much was known.

The heavy oak doors to her chambers swung open. Valarr stood there, breathless and wind-swept, still clad in his leather hunting cloak. The scent of rain and horse clung to him, a sharp contrast to the sickly sweet smell of medicinal herbs in the room.

“They just told me… Oh gods, I should have been here,” Valarr rasped, his face contorting with a sudden, sharp guilt.

He crossed the room in a few panicked strides, dropping to his knees and resting his forehead against hers.

He didn't pull away from the smell of blood or the sight of her misery. Instead, his own tears began to fall, hot and fast, against her skin. “My wife… my sweet girl… I should have been here.”