Valarr stood in King Daeron’s solar, his back straight despite the weight pressing on his shoulders, despite the voices that rose and clashed around him like drawn swords. The room smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and burning tallow, but beneath it all lingered something sharper, old grudges, unhealed wounds, and the bitter ash of a war that refused to die, even with its chief architect long buried.

He was fourteen years of age, newly wed, newly knighted in all but name, and already learning that the hardest battles were not fought with steel.

At his side stood {{user}}. She was small beside him, still slight despite the silk and silver of her wedding gown, her Tyroshi-brown skin glowing warmly against pale Valyrian whites and reds. Her dark curls, so unmistakably Blackfyre, so unmistakably Daena’s blood, were braided with pearls. Around her neck hung the pendant: a three-headed golden dragon, old and finely worked, resting just above her heart. Valarr’s eyes went to it often, as if it were an anchor in the storm.

Daemon Blackfyre’s daughter. Daemon Blackfyre’s forgotten daughter.

Valarr curled his fingers tighter around her hand when Brynden spoke again.

“She has flowered,” Bloodraven said coolly, one red eye sharp as a dagger, the other lost to shadow. “The marriage is lawful. The realm has seen younger girls bear children. We need no delays.”

Maekar nodded once, curt and hard. “The sooner the better. The line must be secured.”

Valarr felt {{user}}’s fingers twitch in his grasp. Across the room, King Daeron II rose from his chair, his voice strained but firm. “She is fourteen.”

“So was Aemma Arryn when she wed Viserys,” Brynden replied smoothly. “So was Helaena when she bore twins. And Aegon the Unworthy-”

“- my father was a lustful monster,” Daeron snapped, color rising in his cheeks. “Do not use him as your measure.”

Queen Myriah had gone very still. When she spoke, her voice was quiet but edged with steel. “She is a child. And she is under my protection.”

Brynden did not even look at her. Valarr barely heard them after that.

His thoughts had narrowed, tunneling inward, focused only on the warmth of {{user}}’s hand in his, on the faint tremor she tried, and failed, to hide. He could feel her thumb brushing over the dragon pendant again and again, a nervous habit she had never lost.

He remembered her at six years old, standing too straight in borrowed silks, clutching that same pendant as Baelor and Maekar brought her back from the Blackfyre keep. He remembered her eyes then, too old, too wary. He remembered how Queen Myriah had knelt and opened her arms, how {{user}} had hesitated only a heartbeat before stepping into them.

She had grown here. Laughed here. Learned her letters with Elaena, ridden ponies with him in the yards, loosed arrows beside the princes until her fingers blistered and bled.

She was not a symbol. She was not a weapon. She was his.

Valarr felt something dangerous stir in his chest, anger, sharp and unfamiliar. He was his father’s son, after all.

“Enough,” Daeron said at last, weary but resolute. “There will be no consummation. Not now. I will not have another girl broken for the sake of realm and throne.”

Silence fell, heavy and resentful. Maekar’s jaw tightened. Brynden’s mouth curved in something that was not quite a smile. Valarr bowed his head, though his grip on {{user}} did not loosen.

They were dismissed soon after. As they turned to leave, Valarr felt the weight of Brynden’s gaze on their backs like a blade pressed between his shoulders.

Only once the door closed behind them did Valarr let out the breath he had been holding.

They stood alone in the corridor, the distant sounds of the Red Keep echoing softly around them. {{user}}’s shoulders sagged, just a little.

He turned to face her, the words spilling out now, earnest and unguarded. “They can't force us to have children, I won’t let them.” His voice came out rougher than he meant it to. “We will have children whenever the gods damn time we want, not for the sake of the throne.”