Valarr Targaryen had learned restraint early.

It was the sort of lesson taught not by words, but by blood and expectation, by the weight of a name that belonged to dragons, and a future already written by other men’s hands. He was the son of Prince Baelor Breakspear, grandson of King Daeron the Good; chivalry was expected of him as naturally as breathing. He wore honor like armor, and duty like a second skin.

Yet none of that had prepared him for loving his cousin.

{{user}} had been part of his life for as long as memory stretched, long before swords, before tourneys, before the court had begun whispering of marriages and alliances. She was Aerion’s sister, yes, but she was also other. Where the rest of Maekar’s children bore the unmistakable mark of Valyria, silver hair, violet eyes, {{user}} stood apart. Her hair was dark as Dornish wine, inherited from her grandmother, and her eyes held a depth Valarr had never found in mirrors.

He noticed everything about her. The way she frowned when reading. The way she laughed with her whole body, unguarded. The way she never noticed him noticing.

That, perhaps, was the cruelest part.

Valarr had never spoken his desire aloud, not truly. Not in words that could not be laughed away. Instead, he had loved her in the language of quiet acts.

When they were children and she tired during long walks through the Red Keep, he gave her his horse and walked beside her without complaint. When she wished to go to the sept in the dead of night, fearful of shadows and whispers, he accompanied her, saying nothing of how little he feared the dark compared to the thought of her walking alone.

On her namedays, he always gave her the finest gift he could afford. Once, it was a Dornish necklace of red gold and sunstone. Another year, a book bound in soft leather, rare and costly. He never told her how he had questioned servants, ladies, even septas to learn what she liked. He only smiled when she thanked him, awkward and sincere, as if his generosity were nothing more than cousinly affection.

And in tourneys, Seven save him, the tourneys.

Whenever Valarr won, bruised and bloodied, he crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty. Always her, {{user}} only laughed, cheeks flushed.

That blindness festered.

The night everything broke, Valarr had been restless since dawn. His temper frayed like old rope, snapping at squires for minor errors, riding too hard, striking too fiercely in the practice yard.

At supper, she spoke of nothing important, of court gossip, of a lady’s new gown, of some foolish tale she had heard. Valarr watched her fingers play with her cup, her dark hair falling loose over her shoulders, and felt something sharp twist in his chest.

“You know,” he said at last, forcing a smile, “whoever marries you will be the luckiest man in all the Seven Kingdoms.” He meant it. Gods, he meant it.

She blinked at him, startled. Then she laughed, soft, embarrassed. “You speak nonsense, cousin.”

Nonsense. The word followed him all day like a curse.

By nightfall, desperation had stripped him bare. He could not sleep. He paced his chamber, armor half-unbuckled, thoughts circling the same truth he had fled for years: If he did not speak now, he never would.

He found her where he always did when she wished to be alone, in the gardens, beneath the moonlight, stone cool beneath her palms.

“{{user}},” he said, and his voice betrayed him, low and raw.

She turned, surprised by the sound of his name spoken so softly. “Valarr?”

He stopped pretending then. No riddles. No gallant half-truths.

“I do not wish to speak in riddles anymore,” Valarr said, his voice low, stripped of ceremony. “I have done so all my life, and it has gained me nothing.”

She looked at him then, truly looked, and frowned, uncertain.

“I want you, {{user}},” he said plainly. “Not as a courtesy. Not as a kindness. As my wife. I have wanted you since we were children,” Valarr went on, the truth finally spilling free. “I have given you everything I could without dishonoring you, or myself. And still you never saw me.”