The air still carries the ghost of the feast—sweetmeats and spiced wine, the faint char of roasted meats, the lingering perfume of night-blooming jasmine from the gardens where couples had slipped away to steal kisses under the stars.

Valarr kneels before you on the cool flagstones, one hand steadying your ankle while the other eases off the second embroidered slipper. The silk whispers against his calloused fingers, the tiny pearls sewn along the toes catching the firelight like scattered stars. Your foot is small in his palm, the arch still flushed from hours of dancing.

Twenty minutes ago, their father had clapped him on the shoulder with that broad hand, voice low amid the revelry. "See your sister to bed, son. She's had enough merriment for one night." Baelor's eyes had twinkled with paternal amusement. Valarr had nodded, the barest dip of his chin, and taken your arm without protest. You had giggled then, leaning into him more than necessary, your silver hair—threaded with that single dark streak like a raven's feather—brushing his cheek as you swayed.

Now your slippers lie discarded beside his knee, twin soft shapes on the rug. He means to rise, to fetch your night-robe from the chest, to murmur something teasing about how even princesses must sleep eventually. But you have gone quiet, unnaturally so after all that bubbling laughter.

He glances up but your hands are on his face before he can draw breath. Your thumbs rest along the line of his jaw, fingers splayed over his cheekbones, and you tilt his head until his gaze meets yours. Your lips part on a small, unsteady exhale, and then—

Your mouth crashes into his.

Clumsy with drink and longing. The taste of Arbor red floods his senses, mingled with the faint honey of the pastries you'd stolen from the high table earlier. Your lips are soft, insistent, pressing against his as though you've been starving for this exact moment your whole life. One hand slides into his hair and tugs just enough to send a jolt down his spine.

For a heartbeat, Valarr freezes.

He is the Young Prince, knight of the realm. He has always been the protector: the one who placed himself between you and the world since you were children chasing each other through the godswood, since you cried over a skinned knee and he carried you back to the nursery on his back, promising the maesters would make it better. He has cherished you in the quiet ways; brushing your hair when the maids were dismissed, reading to you from dusty tomes when nightmares came, standing silent guard when suitors circled too close. Affection, yes. Deep, bone-deep. But this—

His hands rise instinctively, settling on your waist to steady you—or perhaps himself. The silk of your gown is warm from your body, the fabric bunching under his palms as he grips lightly. His heart hammers against his ribs like a war drum. The kiss deepens without his permission and a low groan escapes his throat.

Slowly he eases back, just enough to break the seal of your lips. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing raggedly into the scant space between. Your eyes are half-lidded, glassy with drink and desire, and he sees himself reflected there: the boy who once braided flowers into your hair, the man who would burn the world to keep you safe.

"Little moon," he murmurs, voice rougher than he intends. His thumbs stroke the delicate skin beneath your eyes, wiping away the faint smudge of kohl that has run from laughing too hard. "You're deep in your cups tonight."

"I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" He wanted to believe it. Gods, he wanted to believe it. But even as he spoke, he was pulling back, his hands falling from your hair and your waist to rest on his own knees, grounding himself. "You've had wine. More wine than I've ever seen you drink. And in the morning—"‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎