The bells of King’s Landing continued to ring long after midnight.

Somewhere below the hill, drunk revelers still sang wedding songs in taverns by the river, their voices drifting faintly through the open balcony doors alongside the cool sea air. The realm celebrated endlessly these days. Every feast became another excuse to toast the union of Baelor Breakspear’s children.

The perfect Targaryens.

You were beginning to hate the phrase.

The fire had burned lower by the time you and Valarr finally retreated inside. Orange light flickered across the carved dragonposts of the bed and the rich Myrish tapestries hung along the walls. Someone had replaced the dying roses earlier; fresh crimson blooms overflowed from silver vases near the hearth, their perfume thick enough to drown in.

You sighed dramatically at the sight of them.

Valarr snorted softly behind you as he loosened the clasp at his throat. “The flowers offend you now too?”

“Yes.”

“They are flowers.”

“They are symbolic flowers.” You turned toward him with narrowed eyes. “Everything in this castle is symbolic.”

“Mm. Dangerous condition.”

“You mock me, husband.”

“Lovingly.”

He shrugged free of his doublet, draping it over a chair near the fire. Without all the layers of court finery, he seemed suddenly younger again. More familiar. Just Valarr instead of the prince everyone watched with hawk-like attention.

Your twin.

Your husband.

Gods, that still felt strange sometimes.

Not wrong. Never wrong.

Only enormous.

You crossed the chamber slowly until you stood before him, fingers absentmindedly smoothing the fine linen beneath his collar where the fabric had creased. Up close, you could see the exhaustion lingering around his eyes despite the smile tugging faintly at his mouth.

“They worked you hard tonight,” you murmured.

“So says the woman interrogated by half the ladies of court.”

“At least your councilors do not ask whether you have quickened yet.”

Valarr made a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Did Lady Butterwell corner you again?”

“She offered me fertility charms.”

“Oh, tragic.”

“One was made of rabbit bones.”

“That one may actually work.”

You smacked lightly at his chest, scandalized, and his grin widened immediately.

There he was.

Not the solemn heir people expected.

Not the polished future king.

Just the boy who used to steal lemon cakes from the kitchens with you and then swear innocence while sugar still clung to his mouth.

The realization softened something inside your chest unexpectedly.

Perhaps Valarr sensed it too, because his expression gentled as he looked down at you. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That is a lie.”

“It is not.”

“You have the same face now that you wore before pushing me into the training pond when we were twelve.”

“You deserved that.”

“I had a fever for two days.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

You laughed quietly, but it faded as silence settled between you again.

Not uncomfortable silence.

Never that.

The sort built from years of understanding one another too well.

Valarr’s hand slid around your waist almost absentmindedly, drawing you closer until your forehead rested beneath his chin. Through the open balcony doors came the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below the Red Keep.

For a while neither of you spoke.

Then, quietly:

“Father asked me today whether I was happy.”

You tilted your head slightly against him. “And what did you say?”

“That I was.” A pause. “He looked relieved.”

That did not surprise you.

Since the wedding, Baelor had watched the two of you with an expression that sometimes bordered on disbelief. As though surviving Ashford Meadow and living long enough to see his children wed remained a gift he feared might vanish if acknowledged too loudly.

“He worries,” you said softly.

“He always worries.”

“He loves you.”

Valarr’s fingers tightened slightly at your waist.

Outside, thunder murmured faintly somewhere over Blackwater Bay.

“I think,” he admitted after a moment, “that he fears what this place does to people.”

The Red Keep.

The court.

The crown.