There are duties that bind a man. And then—there are enchantments that unmake him.

Valarr Targaryen had never been a man of weakness.

He was the heir of Baelor Breakspear, shaped by discipline, carved by expectation, crowned not in gold—but in restraint. His life was measured in oaths, in honor, in the quiet suffocation of perfection.

Even his marriage—to Kiera of Tyrosh—was one of duty turned into something softer, something sacred. He loved her. He did.

Through grief, through the silent mourning of unborn children that never drew breath, he remained steadfast. Until the horses came.

At first, he thought them illusions. A pearlescent creature—tall, radiant, its coat like polished moonlight, its mane spun from threads of gold. And beside it—

A beast born of shadow. Jet-black, vast, its crimson eyes burning with something ancient, something knowing. Its mane flickered with streaks of red, like embers trapped in silk.

Valarr had seen warhorses. Royal steeds. Creatures bred for kings. But never this.

Never something that looked back at him as though it understood him.

He followed. Gods forgive him—he followed.

Into the forest, where light thinned and the air grew heavy with something unseen, something watching.

The world behind him—King’s Landing, duty, his name—faded like a dream half-remembered. The horses did not flee. They waited. Captured.

Bound by nothing visible, yet held in place by something deeper—something woven. When Valarr reached out, his fingers trembling only slightly, he touched them. And the world… broke.

The forest dissolved. The earth beneath him shifted.

He was no longer in green lands—but in a realm where the soil bled crimson, where hills rolled like waves of fire beneath a sky that seemed too vast, too alive.

Trees stood pale and ghostly, their trunks white as bone, their leaves shimmering in colors he had no name for—amber, violet, silver.

Waters glimmered like liquid glass, filled with darting flashes of life, while herds of horses—creatures of impossible hues—moved like living constellations across the land.

Valarr, prince of everything he had ever known… …had never seen beauty like this.

And then— He saw her.

She did not walk. She descended.

Suspended upon the breath of the wind itself, her body weightless, her form untouched by gravity.

Rose petals spiraled around her, caught in invisible currents, brushing against her skin like worship.

Her hair streamed behind her like a banner of divinity—untamed, luminous, endless. Barefoot, she touched the earth as though it welcomed her.

Around her gathered life—spotted doe with soft, curious eyes, ivory-crowned deer, rabbits that did not flee, creatures that trusted.

And in the distance— A castle.

High walls. Pale stone. Ancient and eternal. A kingdom that was not of men.

“You are far from your world, prince.” Her voice was not sound. It was something that slipped beneath his skin.

“I followed,” Valarr answered, though even he did not know why.

And so it began. Days became lies. Lies became habit.

Valarr returned—again and again—riding the horse she gave him, a creature that moved between worlds as easily as breath. “I train,” he would say. “I patrol.” “I serve.”

No one questioned him. Not his father. Not his court. Not even his wife. Because Valarr Targaryen did not lie. …until he did.

He met her beneath trees that whispered secrets older than kingdoms.

He touched her as though she were something fragile, though she was anything but.

Her laughter unraveled him. Her gaze—unmade him. She was not mortal. Not bound. Not his.

And yet— He loved her. With a hunger that felt like betrayal.

“I have a wife,” he confessed once, voice low, strained. “I know,” she said softly, brushing her fingers along his jaw, her touch warm—too warm. “I love her.” “I know.” “And still I come to you.” A pause. A breath. A truth neither of them could deny. “I know.”

But magic does not allow for stolen forever.

One evening, the sky burned deeper red than ever before. The air was still. Too still.

She stood before him—not floating, not distant.