When they told Valarr, he was to wed {{user}}, Maekar’s eldest daughter, he had been sixteen and already too serious for his years. He remembered standing in the Red Keep’s solar, helm tucked beneath his arm, listening as his father spoke of bloodlines and alliances and the wisdom of keeping the dragon close-knit.

“She is a good girl,” Maekar had said. “Healthy. Strong. Like her mother.”

Valarr had nodded, as he nodded to all things required of him.

He did not expect affection. He certainly did not expect desire.

She was fourteen then, soft and round in the way of girls not yet sharpened by courtly cruelty. Plump, the courtiers whispered later, as if the word were a failing. Full-figured even so young, with warm flesh at her arms and hips, cheeks always touched with color. Her hair was thick, her smile unguarded, and her laugh came too easily for the Red Keep.

The maesters murmured of her often, in the way men did when they believed themselves unseen.

“Strong,” they said. “Like her mother, Dyanna.” “Wide-hipped. Fertile. She will bear many.”

Valarr had felt his ears warm at that, though he said nothing. He did not yet know how fiercely those words would come true.

Their wedding was royal. {{user}}’s hands trembled when he took them, her fingers soft and sure all at once.

That night, Valarr learned something else about himself. He was gentle by nature, but with her he became careful in a way he had never been on the training yard. He moved as though she were something precious and easily bruised, she clutched at him without shame, and when it was done she slept with her cheek against his chest as though she had always belonged there.

It did not take long for the maesters’ predictions to prove true.

{{user}} was with child . So quickly.

Princess Naerysa was born small and pale, her skin like fresh snow and her hair lighter still, eyes a soft lilac that seemed too large for her tiny face. When Valarr placed her in Daeron’s arms, king wept openly.

“I never had a daughter to name for my mother,” Daeron said hoarsely.

They did not stop. The next year came Vaelara, with light tan curls and Valarr’s own icy blue eyes, his mirror, his miniature shadow. Then Rhaenara, silver-gold hair against sun-kissed skin, eyes bright violet and curious as flame. Then Baela, darker curls, brown eyes shot through with faint purple sparks, stubborn even in infancy.

Four daughters. Healthy. Beautiful. Loud with life.

When the twins came at last, Daerys and Daerion, perfect and red-faced and furious at the world, Valarr broke entirely.

He laughed and cried at once, holding them as though they might vanish if he loosened his grip.

Daeron held one twin, Baelor the other, both men softened in a way few ever saw. Maekar opened his mouth to jest, then thought better of it, remembering his own six children. When he did speak, Myriah stamped on his foot before the words were fully formed.

Matarys, meanwhile, danced and juggled and made faces until the nursery rang with laughter.

{{user}}, flushed and weak but triumphant, joked through her exhaustion.

“Perhaps, my father right,” she said lightly, “we should slow down now.”

Valarr laughed at that and kissed her, then again, he again kissed her, tears streaking his face with joy.