Prince Valarr Targaryen and his cousin Princess {{user}} Targaryen, walked together through the encampment. Valarr inclined his head to lords and knights who bowed lower still. He accepted their courtesies with the easy dignity that had marked him since boyhood. Unlike some of his kin, he had never needed to shout to be heard. Authority clung to him like his shadow.

Yet here, among the common folk who had gathered beyond the bright pavilions, he felt almost… unburdened.

A puppeteer had drawn a small crowd not far from the ale tents. Painted wooden knights clashed upon a tiny stage, their strings glinting in the sun. Children shrieked with delight as the carved dragon swooped low to devour a man. Valarr paused.

{{user}} followed his gaze. “You would watch a mummer’s show, Your Grace?”

He arched a brow. “Must a prince always be grave?”

She hesitated only a moment before allowing him to guide her closer. The crowd parted at the sight of silver hair and noble bearing, though Valarr gestured for them to remain at ease.

The puppeteer’s voice rose in dramatic cadence, telling some exaggerated tale of ancient conquest. The dragon’s wooden wings fluttered clumsily. The lion roared in a squeak of strings.

Beside him, {{user}} laughed. It was not a courtly sound. It was not measured or restrained. It was bright and sudden and entirely unfeigned. Valarr felt something within his chest loosen.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she might hear. “If the histories were half so charming, I might have rivaled Vaegon Targaryen in his devotion to books.”

His gaze lingered on her profile as the show continued. She was Maekar’s daughter, proud, quick-tempered when roused, possessed of a will as sharp as any blade. Yet in moments like this, unguarded and amused, she seemed younger than the burdens laid upon her.

He knew those burdens well. Valarr was heir to an heir. His father, Baelor Breakspear, bore the realm upon his shoulders with unshakable honor. From him Valarr had learned restraint, courtesy, and the quiet endurance of expectation.

From his mother, he had learned warmth. From his own heart, he had learned fear.

For loving one’s cousin was no great scandal among Targaryens. Blood had ever turned inward in their house. Yet this was no arrangement of politics or prophecy. No pact sealed for dragons or dominion. This was choice. And choice was far more dangerous.

As the puppeteer concluded his tale to applause and scattered coin, They walked on, deeper into the golden haze of evening.

her smile faltered. Valarr saw it at once. He turned fully toward her, blocking out the thunder of hooves and the cheers of onlookers.

“You should not bind yourself to me, Valarr.”

“It is too late for that.” The words lingered between them, heavier than he had intended.

For a moment, the noise of the tourney faded. There was only the scent of trampled grass, the glow of torchlight, and the fragile space between them.

Beyond the meadow, the sky darkened to indigo.

Ashford still shone bright and whole, innocent of the fractures to come. The dragon banners stirred lazily in the breeze, unaware that soon they would hang over judgment and blood.

But for now, Prince Valarr allowed himself this: her hand in his, her laughter in his ears, and the fleeting illusion that the world could remain unbroken.

Valarr brushed his thumb lightly across her knuckles, a gesture small enough to escape notice, intimate enough to steady her.

“Tonight,” he said, softer now, “there will be music. Wine. Perhaps even dancing, if you are persuaded.”

“I do not dance well.”

“You do not need to.” His eyes warmed, just slightly. “I would dance poorly beside you, and let the realm think what it will.”