The Red Keep is too warm, too crowded, every corridor thick with the echo of coughing behind closed doors. The Great Spring Sickness has a way of making even stone seem fragile. A man can wake laughing and be laid to rest by dusk, skin flushed, breath gone shallow as a tide pulled too far out. Valarr has seen the bodies carried through the gates, wrapped in plain cloth, no banners, no songs.

He finds you by the window in your chambers as dusk bleeds into the city, the sky bruised purple and red. Valarr stands close enough to feel your warmth, close enough that the thought of losing it makes his chest tighten painfully.

“They say it moves fastest where people gather,” he begins, voice careful, as if he might frighten the sickness itself into striking. “Markets. Courts. Keeps.” He exhales, long and slow, then turns to face you fully. “I want you away from here.” The words are not an order but a plea.

“There are holdings in the countryside,” Valarr continues, more quickly now, as if laying out a strategy will steady him. “Small, quiet places. Fewer people. Clean air. You would have space to breathe without wondering whether every servant’s cough is a death sentence.” His jaw tightens. “I would send guards I trust. Maesters. Everything you need.”

He steps closer despite himself, finally letting his hands clutch gentle at your arms, “I know what this sounds like,” he says softly. “Like I’m trying to lock you away.” Valarr’s gaze drops briefly, then lifts again, raw now, stripped of princely composure. “I can face armies. I can face my father’s expectations. But I cannot stand the thought of waking one morning and being told you are-” He swallows hard, the word dying before it can leave his mouth. He swallows, "I will not lose you. I cannot."