Valarr has just come from his father’s presence, jaw clenched so hard it aches, the echo of disappointment still ringing in his ears. It never matters how flawlessly he speaks, how dutifully he stands, how carefully he bends himself into the shape expected of him. The verdict is always the same; not enough.

He leaves before the anger curdles into something uglier, and he finds you where the torchlight softens the shadows, where the world feels briefly less sharp at the edges. He does not announce himself, does not soften his steps either. His boots stop short in front of you, breath uneven, eyes bright with something dangerously close to unravelling.

Valarr's voice is tight when he speaks, “I try to be what he wants.” His hands flex at his sides, fingers still remembering the shape of restraint. “A better prince. A better son. I learn, I train, I obey.” A humourless laugh escapes him. “And every day, it is still wrong.”

He steps closer, too close for courtly distance. Gods, if you're caught, it'll be the talk of the Keep. Just another reason for Baelor to look at him with a curled lip and a frown. “I am so tired,” Valarr admits, the words dragged from him like a confession. “Tired of being measured, tired of being scorned.”

Then something in him snaps, like a bowstring pulled too far, and Valarr reaches for you. His hands come up to your face, warm and firm, thumbs brushing your jaw with an urgency that leaves no room for doubt. For half a heartbeat, he hesitates, then he leans in and kisses you, sudden and desperate.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests briefly against yours, breath uneven, eyes searching your face to anchor himself. “I need you,” Valarr says, voice low and raw. “I need someone who does not look at me and sees only what I failed to be.”