The evening bells of King’s Landing were sounding the hour when Prince Valarr at last laid aside the parchment that had held his attention for the better part of the afternoon. The Red Keep breathed its usual restless breath, servants in the galleries, distant steel in the yard below, the faint murmur of courtiers who never seemed to tire of whispering. Yet none of it held his mind.

It had been four weeks. Four weeks since {{user}} had ridden southward to her mother’s lands with escort and more reassurances than he had cared to admit he needed. Four weeks of empty chambers, untouched wine at supper, and a marriage bed grown far too wide for one man.

Valarr Targaryen was not a man given to soft dependencies. He had been raised in a court where boys were taught early that affection could be a weakness and love a blade offered hilt-first to one’s enemies.

Yet marriage had altered him. Or perhaps it had revealed what had always been there.

A knock sounded. Not the brisk knock of a servant. Not the hesitant tap of some lordling seeking favor.

Three firm strikes. Valarr’s head lifted at once. The door opened before his sworn sword could even announce the visitor. And there she stood.

The autumn wind had loosened strands of her dark hair. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the long road, her breath still quick from the climb up the tower steps. Alive. Whole. Home.

For one long second Valarr did not move at all. Then, “Seven save me,” he murmured softly, almost to himself. “You chose to return after all.”

There was dry humor in the words, but the relief beneath them was naked.

He crossed the chamber in long strides that forgot entirely the slow dignity expected of princes. His hands caught hers first, as though needing proof she was solid, then slid to her shoulders, then finally, unable to pretend restraint any longer, he pulled her fully against him.

The breath left him in something close to a laugh.

“You took half the warmth of this castle with you,” he said into her hair. “I had begun to suspect winter followed in your wake… and I was troubley missed you,” he admitted.

He dismissed the guards with a quiet gesture, The door shut, Silence settled.

The wine remained untouched. Instead they spoke in low voices near the hearth while the last gold of sunset faded through the narrow windows. She told him of her homeland hall, of the fields already browning toward autumn, of the small quarrels of household knights and the gossip of distant cousins.

He listened. Truly listened. Valarr was not famed for patience in council, yet with her, he never hurried a word.

Only once did his composure slip. When she laughed. A small, familiar laugh he had not heard in a month.

Night came fully. Servants lit candles and withdrew. The chamber softened into amber shadow. And at last the distance of four weeks could not be politely ignored any longer.

His voice lowered. “Do you know,” Valarr said slowly, “how many men in this castle attempted to tell me I looked healthier for sleeping alone?”

A faint, dangerous smile. “I nearly had three of them reassigned to the Wall.”

His hand rose, not hurried, not demanding, simply resting warm at the small of her back. “I am a patient man when duty demands it,” he murmured. A pause. “…but I have fulfilled my duty for a month.”

The words were gentle. The meaning was not.