They had called it a blessing.

In the manner men often do, when they mean to bind a thing too bright to their will and call it divine.

The match between Valarr Targaryen and you had been spoken of in courts and corridors as though the gods themselves had shaped it—your beauty, his blood, the joining of promise and perfection beneath the watchful gaze of Daeron II Targaryen.

But gods did not dwell in marriage halls. Men did.

And men mistook fire for light far too often.

You came to King's Landing as something untested by its cruelty.

Not untouched—never untouched—but unbroken.

There was a difference.

The court saw your beauty first.

They always did.

Hair that fell like pale silk to your ankles, catching torchlight in quiet brilliance. A body shaped with an indulgence the gods rarely granted mortals—soft where it invited, strong where it endured. Eyes wide and luminous, framed by lashes so thick they cast shadows upon your cheeks.

Men admired.

Women measured.

And you—

You observed.

Valarr did not pretend indifference.

He was his father’s son in honor, but not in restraint.

Where Baelor Breakspear was forged of discipline and duty, Valarr still carried the sharp edge of youth.

He looked at you the way a man looks upon something he has been promised his entire life—something he feared might vanish if he blinked.

On your wedding night, there had been no hesitation.

No careful distance.

No polite distance shaped by courtesy.

Only heat. Only certainty. Only possession.

The years that followed did not cool him. They sharpened him.

You bore him sons—one after another, as if your body answered some ancient call older than crowns and kingdoms.

Baelor. Daeron. Aegon. Aemon.

Names spoken with pride.

Names carried through halls where legacy was measured in sons and steel.

They were strong boys.

Loud.

Bright.

Too alive to be ignored.

Their hair shone silver-gold, thick and wild even in youth. Their eyes carried the deep hues of old Valyria—violet and indigo and something darker beneath.

When they played, they did not play gently. Wooden swords struck hard.

Laughter turned quickly to shouting.

And when they cried, the sound cut through stone.

Valarr loved them.

There was no doubt in it.

He would kneel to their height, laugh at their fury, lift them easily into his arms even as they struggled like small, furious kings.

And when he came to you— He came the same way.

Not as a prince mindful of watching eyes. But as a man who had never learned to want in moderation.

His hands were never idle upon you.

Never distant.

Always claiming.

Always certain.

It did not go unnoticed.

Nothing ever did.

Baelor watched.

He watched as he always had—quietly, from a distance, with the patience of a man who understood that time revealed truths louder than any confession.

At first, he had approved.

You were suitable.

More than suitable.

You had given his son heirs swiftly and without complication.

You carried yourself with a grace that did not falter beneath scrutiny.

You did not weep easily.

You did not bend readily.

All qualities a prince’s wife must possess.

But time has a way of peeling away the polished surface of things.

And Baelor began to see what lay beneath.

It was not in grand gestures.

Not in the births.

Not in the feasts held in your honor.

It was in the smaller things.

The way Valarr’s voice changed when he spoke to you.

Lower.

Rougher.

Less controlled.

The way his temper—so carefully honed under Baelor’s guidance—frayed quickest in your presence.

Not because you angered him.

But because you mattered too much.

Baelor saw the marks once. Faint.

Half-hidden beneath the collar of Valarr’s tunic.

Not wounds of war.

Not careless scratches.

Something else.

Lips marks, teeth.

Love marks, possessive.

Something chosen.

Baelor said nothing.

But he did not forget.

And for once, he wondered how it feels to be yours.