The rain came down in silver sheets over Dragonstone that autumn, drumming against the leaded windows of the royal apartments like impatient fingers. Valarr stood at the embrasure, one palm flat against the cold stone sill, watching the Blackwater turn the color of bruised steel below.

Two years and change since the wedding. The sept had smelled of incense and wax that day, and you'd walked toward him in silk the color of moonlit milk, your eyes steady, almost amused, as though the entire court were in on some private jest between the two of you. You'd known each other since you were children scrambling over the godswood roots at Summerhall, stealing apples from the orchard, laughing until your sides ached. When the betrothal was announced, neither of you had protested. Why would you? It felt like slipping into armor you'd already worn a hundred times; familiar, right.

He'd thought the child would come easily. The realm expected it; the court whispered when it didn't. The Young Prince and his barren bride. Valarr had ignored them. He'd never been one for tourney gossip or small men's malice. But the whispers had found their way under your skin anyway.

Then the pregnancy. The way your hand had trembled when you placed his over the gentle swell of your belly, the first time the babe kicked. He'd felt it—a small, insistent flutter against his palm—and something inside him had cracked open, warm and bright. He'd kissed your temple, murmured nonsense into your hair. Our little dragon, he'd said. Gonna have your eyes and my temper, love. The Seven help us all.

Eight months in, the pain came sudden and merciless.

He remembered every detail with cruel clarity: the copper tang of blood in the birthing chamber, the maester's low voice murmuring apologies, your face gone white as bone, eyes glassy with shock and poppy milk. The silence after. No cry. Just the rain outside, indifferent.

You hadn't spoken much since.

Now the chamber was dim, only a single brazier burning low, spitting sparks that died before they reached the rug. You sat on the edge of the great bed, knees drawn up beneath one of his old black cloaks; too big for you, the dragon clasp dangling loose at your throat. Your hair hung in loose strands, still damp from the bath the maids had coaxed you into earlier. The scent of lavender clung to your skin, faint and futile against the grief that had settled over you like damp wool.

Valarr crossed the room without hurry. His boots made almost no sound on the Myrish carpet.

"Hey, sugarplum," he said quietly. No title. No my lady wife. Just the old childhood word you'd always answered to, even when you were pretending to be angry.

You didn't look up.

He sank to one knee before you, the stone was cold through his breeches. He reached out, letting his hand settle over both of yours, stilling them. Your skin was chilled. He chafed your knuckles gently with his thumb, feeling the fragile bones beneath.

"I know you're in there, sweetheart," he murmured. "You don't have to talk. Just... let me sit with you, yeah? I'm not going anywhere."

A long silence. The rain tapped. And when you finally spoke, your voice was raw, almost unrecognizable. "It was a boy."

Valarr's throat closed. He hadn't asked the maesters. Hadn't wanted the detail to become another blade. But hearing it from you made the loss sharpen into something physical.

He swallowed once, twice. "Yeah?"

You nodded, barely. "I felt him move. Every day. He was... strong. Like you."

"I'm so fucking sorry," he said against your skin. "I should've... I don't know. Protected you better. Kept you safer. Something."

You shook your head once, sharp. "Don't say that, please..."

"I can't help it." He lifted his eyes to yours. Blue meeting yours. "You're my wife. My best friend since we were six and stealing honey cakes from the kitchens. The only person who's ever looked at me and seen Valarr, not the Young Prince, not the heir, not Baelor's shadow. And I let this happen to you."