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The summons from King’s Landing had not been a request; it had been a royal decree, sealed in the red wax of House Targaryen, bearing the heavy, indisputable stamp of the three-headed dragon.
Rumors had been drifting across the Narrow Sea like a foul-smelling fog. The Blackfyres, it was whispered. King Daeron the Good, alongside his Hand and heir, Baelor Breakspear, knew that a fractured realm was a vulnerable realm. They needed the great houses bound to the Iron Throne with ties stronger than mere oaths. They needed blood. And they needed the Vale.
And so, Jon Arryn, the young Warden of the East and Lord of the Eyrie, had ridden down from the Mountains of the Moon with his sister, Clarice, riding beside him. There had been no time for a long betrothal, no time for courtly romances or tourney favors. Clarice was to be wed to Prince Valarr Targaryen, Baelor’s eldest son and the future of the realm, before the moon could turn.
Now, standing in the cavernous, incense-heavy hall of the Great Sept of Baelor, Clarice felt the sheer, terrifying weight of what was about to happen.
She was drowning in Arryn silk. Her gown was a masterpiece of pale blue and silver, embroidered with flowers that seemed to catch the light of the massive crystal windows. A heavy Maiden’s cloak, velvet the color of a twilight sky, rested on her shoulders, fastened with a silver crescent moon. She felt beautiful, yes, her handmaidens had worked tirelessly to braid her blonde hair with pearls and silver wire, but she also felt like a very expensive piece of meat being brought to a high table.
"Breathe, dear sister," Jon murmured, standing beside her. "You look as though you're marching to the executioner's block."
"If I am, I expect you to draw your sword, brother," Clarice whispered back, her voice remarkably steady despite the frantic fluttering in her chest.
Jon gave a low, dry chuckle. "If Prince Valarr proves to be a brute, I will. But by all accounts, he is his father's son. A good man."
"A stranger," Clarice corrected. "A stranger I am bound to until the Stranger takes me."
The massive, gilded doors of the sept groaned open. Jon offered his arm. She took it, her fingers gripping the velvet of his doublet tight enough to leave a mark.
They walked down the aisle. Clarice kept her chin high, her dark eyes fixed straight ahead. She was an Arryn of the Vale; her house words were As High as Honor, and she would not let these southron lords see her tremble.
And then, she saw him.
Prince Valarr Targaryen stood at the altar beneath the towering, gilded statues of the Father and the Mother. The breath left Clarice’s lungs in a quiet, sudden rush.
She had expected a boy, or perhaps someone arrogant and aloof, hardened by the immense pressure of his lineage. Instead, she found a young man of striking, undeniable handsomeness. He was tall and leanly muscled, dressed in a doublet of deep charcoal and crimson. His hair was dark, unlike the traditional Targaryen silver, but a single, striking streak of silver-gold ran through his fringe, catching the candlelight.
But it was his face that arrested her. He had a strong jaw and a straight nose, but his eyes —one striking, deep blue; the other the colour of grounding, damp earth— were impossibly kind. As Clarice approached, she saw the tension in his own shoulders, the slight, nervous swallow before his throat cleared.
Valarr watched his bride approach with a heart hammering against his ribs. When his father had told him of the match, he had accepted it as his duty, how could he not? He expected a stern, cold mountain girl. But the woman walking toward him was breathtaking. Clarice had a heart-shaped face, skin like porcelain, and eyes the colour of a storm and so intelligent they seemed to pierce right through the pageantry of the room. There was a fiery, defiant set to her jaw that made his breath hitch.
Jon Arryn brought her to a halt at the foot of the altar. The High Septon’s voice droned on, speaking of duty, the gods, and the joining of two ancient lines. Then came the moment of the hand-off.
Jon lifted Clarice’s hand and placed it into Valarr’s.
Valarr’s hands were warm, calloused from the sword, but his grip was incredibly gentle. He stepped infinitesimally closer as the High Septon continued his prayers, leaning his head down just a fraction so only she could hear him over the choir.
"You are trembling, my lady," Valarr whispered, his voice a rich, soothing and immensely kind baritone. A soft, reassuring light shone in his eyes. "I promise, I am not as fearsome as my house’s sigil. You have nothing to fear from me."
Clarice looked up at him through her lashes. Her initial panic melted, replaced by an innate, bubbling spark of mischief that had always been her defining trait.
A small, genuine smirk played at the corner of her lips. She leaned in, just a breath closer, the scent of her lavender perfume washing over him.
"I was rather hoping you would be, my prince," she whispered back, her tone hushed but laced with a wicked, sweet teasing. "I've always wanted to see a dragon breathe fire. But I suppose a handsome knight will have to do."
Valarr blinked, momentarily taken aback. Then, a slow, unbidden and sweet smile broke across his face, transforming him entirely. The seriousness vanished, replaced by a radiant, boyish charm. He let out a surprised, hushed giggle. "Then I shall do my best not to disappoint you, my lady."
As the High Septon called for the exchange of cloaks, Valarr unfastened the heavy Arryn blue from her shoulders. He took the Targaryen cloak, black velvet bearing the three-headed red dragon, and draped it carefully over her, letting his hands linger for just a second on her shoulders.
When he leaned in to kiss her, sealing the marriage, it was not the awkward, formal peck Clarice had imagined. It was soft, warm, and deeply reverent. As his lips brushed hers, Clarice felt a sudden, undeniable spark of magic hum between them.
As they parted, Clarice looked up at him, her tone dropping into something playfully ominous. "It seems my brother won't have to draw his sword, after all," she whispered.
Valarr blinked, his hands still resting gently on her waist. He looked down at her with an impossibly adoring, yet entirely confused face. He simply chuckled a disoriented giggle.
Clarice’s eyes searched for Jon down the hall. Her brother was smiling, his sword safely sheathed at his side.
Morning sunlight slanted through the narrow, arched windows of Dragonstone’s family dining solar, catching the dust motes dancing over a table filled with cheese, ham, fresh bread, and dark blackberry preserves.
Clarice was deep in conversation with her goodmother, Lady Jena. They were debating the merits of importing Myrish lace versus sticking to the traditional, heavier velvet of the Vale for their winter cloaks.
"The lace is exquisite, of course," Jena was saying, delicately buttering a piece of bread, "but the damp on this island, Clarice, it will rot the delicate threads before the year is out."
"We could line it with tightly woven wool," Clarice suggested, her eyes bright with the puzzle of it. "A layer of pale blue silk beneath the lace, perhaps, to protect it?"
Before Jena could answer, Clarice’s attention snagged on the conversation happening at the end of the table. Baelor, looking more like a comfortable, massive bear than the Hand of the King in his loose morning tunic, was leaning over a parchment with Valarr.
"...an additional copper on every crate of dye from the Free Cities," Baelor rumbled, his deep voice carrying easily. "The treasury needs the padding, and the weavers in King's Landing can absorb the cost."
Clarice didn't even pause to think. She abandoned her lace completely. "A copper a crate? Forgive me, dear Father, but that is absurd."
Valarr looked up from the ledger, a fond, knowing smile already forming on his lips. Matarys, sitting across from him, stopped chewing his apple and leaned forward, his eyes gleaming, eager for the show.
Baelor arched a thick, dark eyebrow, his eyes twinkling with hidden amusement. "Absurd, daughter? The Master of Coin assures me it is a sound strategy."
"The Master of Coin has clearly never tried to sell a bolt of dyed silk in the Vale," Clarice countered, leaning forward and planting her elbows on the table. "If you tax the dye before it's even woven, the merchants will simply pass the cost to the dyers, who will buy less. You'll choke the trade entirely. You're better off taxing the finished product at the city gates."
Baelor crossed his massive arms, settling back in his chair. "The crown cannot wait for merchants to weave their cloth, Clarice. We need the gold now. Perhaps we should tax the raw wool coming out of the Mountains of the Moon as well."
Clarice’s jaw dropped slightly. Her Arryn pride flared instantly. "You would tax my brother's wool? The very wool that keeps half your northern garrisons from freezing to death in the winter? That is extortion, my Prince, not taxation!"
"It is the king's prerogative," Baelor said, his voice maddeningly calm, though the corner of his mouth twitched suspiciously. "If the Eyrie wishes to complain, they may send a raven."
"I will send more than a raven!" Clarice’s voice rose, her hands gripping the edge of the table, entirely forgetting she was raising her voice at the Heir to the Ironthrone. "I will ride to King's Landing myself and shove that ledger down the Master of Coin's—"
Baelor could hold it back no longer. A rich, booming laugh erupted from his deep chest, shaking the heavy oak table. Matarys burst into loud snickers, and even the elegant Jena hid a fond smile behind her linen napkin.
Clarice froze, her words dying in her throat. Her face flushed a deep, brilliant scarlet as she realized she had been thoroughly, masterfully baited. "You... you were mocking me."
"I do apologise," Baelor chuckled, reaching over to pat her hand with his massive, calloused one. "But you are simply too easy to rile. Your brother warned me you had the temper of a cornered shadowcat."
Clarice slumped back in her chair, reluctantly joining the laughter, though she shot her goodfather a scathing glare. "Keep pulling my feathers, my Prince, and I swear to the Seven I will name your first grandson Maegor just to spite you."
The table erupted into laughter again. Matarys nearly choked on his bite of apple, pounding his chest.
"Gods have mercy," Baelor laughed, the sound easy and kind, "Anything but that."
Clarice smiled, but as the echoes of the joke faded, a sudden, quiet pang tightened her chest. Your first grandson. She instinctively dropped her hand to her lap, resting it softly over her flat stomach. They had been married for six months now. The maesters said there was no cause for alarm, but the whispers of the court were often cruel, and the empty space in her womb felt heavier with each passing moon.
Valarr, who had been watching her closely from his side, saw the momentary shadow dim the bright fire in her eyes. He didn't miss a beat. He reached beneath the heavy oak table, his warm fingers finding hers and giving them a firm, reassuring squeeze.
"Speaking of names and terrible beasts," Valarr said smoothly, his voice commanding the table's attention as he turned to his father. "Did the new shipment of destriers arrive from the Reach? Clarice was saying just yesterday she wanted to try breaking that fiery black mare they brought in."
Clarice’s head snapped up like a meerkat’s, the sadness instantly sidelined by the sudden rush of interest. "The one that threw the master of horse into the muck?" she asked, her dark eyes lighting up with dangerous excitement.
"The very one," Valarr smiled, his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand beneath the table. "Though I told the master of horse you would likely have it eating from your palm by midday."
Clarice grinned, the shadows entirely banished, her competitive spirit reignited. "I'll have her jumping fences by sundown."
It was late afternoon, and the sky over Dragonstone was a bruised purple, threatening rain. Inside the walls of the sparring yard, however, the air was hot and thick with dust.
"Your footing is too wide, my love," Valarr said, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "You're giving me your center."
Clarice stood opposite him, a blunted wooden tourney sword gripped in her leather-gloved hands. She had abandoned the heavy silks of the court in favor of a pair of fitted, dark brown riding breeches, utterly scandalous in King's Landing, but perfectly acceptable on the isolated island of Dragonstone, and a loose, light linen shirt that clung slightly to her skin with a sheen of sweat. Her hair was tied back in a loose braid. She looked wild, flushed, and to Valarr, utterly irresistible.
"My footing is wide because I am preparing to sweep your legs out from under you, my prince," Clarice shot back, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes.
Valarr chuckled, leaning casually on his own practice sword. He was in his shirtsleeves, the laces at his collar undone, revealing the smooth, tanned skin of his chest. "A bold strategy, considering I am a foot taller and twice your weight."
"Ah, but I am an Arryn," Clarice said, twirling the wooden blade with surprising dexterity. "We are accustomed to striking from above."
"Then strike, little falcon."
Clarice lunged. She was surprisingly fast. While Jon had not trained her formally, she had spent her childhood watching the knights of the Vale from the balconies of the Eyrie, and she had a natural, dancer's grace. She feinted left, aiming for Valarr’s ribs, then smoothly pivoted, bringing the flat of the wooden blade toward his shoulder.
Valarr parried with effortless skill. The wood clacked sharply. He didn't use his full strength, allowing her to press the attack, guiding her through the motions. He enjoyed teaching her, enjoyed the fierce concentration on her face.
"Good," he murmured, easily blocking a downward strike. "But don't overextend. If you miss, you're open. Keep your guard up."
Clarice grunted, stepping back and circling him. "You're only giving me advice so you can distract me."
"I am giving you advice so you don't bruise that beautiful skin of yours," he teased, his eyes flashing with amusement.
"I'll show you a bruise," she muttered. She surged forward again, unleashing a rapid flurry of strikes. Left, right, a thrust to the center. Valarr parried them all, stepping backward, letting her push the pace.
Then, Clarice saw her opening. Valarr had stepped slightly too far back, his heel catching on an uneven cobblestone in the dirt. Clarice didn't hesitate. She dropped her bum, swung her wooden blade to catch his, twisted her wrist to lock their weapons, and used her momentum to shoulder-check him squarely in the chest, simultaneously sweeping her booted foot behind his ankle.
With a surprised, breathless laugh, Valarr lost his footing. He fell backward onto the soft dirt of the yard, pulling Clarice down with him.
They landed in a tangle of limbs, a cloud of dust puffing up around them. Clarice ended up straddling his hips, her hands pinned to his chest, the wooden swords discarded in the dirt nearby. She looked down at him, her chest heaving, a triumphant, wicked grin spreading across her face.
"I yield, I yield," Valarr laughed, looking up at her. His dark hair, with its streak of silver, was mussed with dirt, and his eyes were crinkled with mirth.
"The great Prince Valarr, brought low by a girl," Clarice mocked gently, leaning down so her face was inches from his. "What will the bards sing?"
"They will sing that the prince was utterly distracted by his opponent's enchanting beauty and forgot how to use his feet," Valarr replied smoothly. He reached up, his hands settling respectfully on her waist, though his blue eyes darkened with sudden heat.
"A terrible excuse for a knight," she whispered, leaning closer and shifting her weight on his hips.
Valarr drew in a sharp, quiet breath. For a moment, he looked entirely ready to pull her down into a deep kiss, but then the heavy clatter of boots echoed near the armory archway. Two guards were making their rounds across the courtyard. Valarr’s innate sense of royal decorum instantly overpowered his impulses. He cleared his throat, a faint flush dusting his cheekbones as he suddenly remembered they were rolling in the dirt of the main yard in broad daylight.
"And yet a perfect excuse for a husband," Valarr murmured quickly, gently but firmly lifting her off him. He scrambled to his feet with fluid grace, turning to offer her a hand.
Clarice took it, letting him pull her up, though she pouted playfully at the sudden loss of contact.
"I think," Valarr said, his voice dropping to a low, husky register meant strictly for her ears as he brushed the dirt from her shoulders, "that this sparring lesson has concluded."
Clarice arched an eyebrow, leaning in close, her tone a wicked tease. "Oh? Are you surrendering so soon? I thought Targaryens had more endurance."
Valarr stepped closer, bending his head as if to inspect a scuff on her linen collar, but his lips brushed her ear instead, completely hidden from the yard. "I assure you, my lady, my resilence is not in question," he whispered, sending a thrill down her spine. "But I prefer to demonstrate my prowess without an audience. And on a much softer battlefield."
The dirt of the sparring yard was quickly abandoned.
The moment the heavy oak doors of their bedchamber clicked shut behind them, Valarr had her pressed against the cool stone wall. There was no slow, courtly romance now; only the frantic, eager desire of two people who could not shed their clothes fast enough. Clarice’s clever fingers made quick work of the laces on his shirt, pushing the linen off his broad shoulders to map the planes of his chest with hungry kisses. Valarr’s hands were equally urgent, pulling her linen shirt over her head and tossing it to the floor before his fingers moved to unfasten her riding breeches.
Their playful teasing melted into heavy, breathless gasps as they tumbled onto the sprawling four-poster bed. The outside world and all its heavy duties were entirely forgotten as Valarr's kisses trailed lower, charting an agonizingly slow path down her stomach and thighs. Clarice's hands tangled in his dark hair as he shifted further down the mattress, her breath hitching at the sudden, intimate warmth of his mouth against her womanhood.
"Oh, Gods," Clarice gasped out, her voice trembling, her fingers blindly gripping the silk sheets.
Valarr paused, shifting just enough to look up the length of her body. His dark hair was charmingly mussed, his eyes blown dark with desire, and a distinctly cocky, devastatingly fond smile played on his lips.
"Not a God," he corrected, his voice sweet with teasing against her thigh. "Just your adoring husband."
The Meadow of Ashford was a sea of vibrant silk, snapping banners, and the chaotic, joyous noise of a realm at peace. For the first day, the atmosphere had been jubilant. Clarice had spent the morning in the stands, cheering until her throat was raw as she watched Valarr and other knights ride in the lists. Valarr looked magnificent in his dark armor, unhorsing two knights with effortless grace before presenting a crown of winter roses to Clarice on the tip of his lance, much to the crowd's delight.
But as night fell and the great feast commenced in the sprawling Targaryen pavilion, the mood shifted.
The pavilion was a massive tent of red and black silk, lit by dozens of iron braziers. At the high table, the family had gathered. The food was rich: roasted boar, honey-glazed fowl, and endless rivers of Arbor gold, and the conversation, initially, was perfectly courtly.
However, halfway through the feast, Baelor and his brother Maekar were called away by the Lord of Ashford to discuss the bracketing for the next day's jousts. Their departure acted like the removal of a heavy, stabilizing anchor.
Left at the table were Clarice, Valarr, his younger brother Matarys, and their cousin, Aerion, along with Aerion's wife, Daenora.
Aerion Targaryen was a man of terrifying vanity and cruelty, Clarice thought. He dressed in ostentatious silks of yellow and red, his silver hair perfectly coiffed, his eyes a bruised, unnerving violet. He despised everything he considered beneath him, which was nearly everyone, and he took a twisted, sadistic pleasure in finding people’s weaknesses and pressing on them until they snapped. He particularly enjoyed bringing Clarice to madness.
"The boar is tough tonight, isn't it?" Aerion remarked to no one in particular, though his gaze never left Clarice's plate. "Though I suppose to a palate raised on mountain goat and hard bread, even this must taste like a feast."
Clarice paused, her silver fork hovering over her plate. Valarr’s hand shifted subtly on the armrest of his chair.
"The food in the Vale is hearty, Prince Aerion," Clarice replied, offering a dangerously tight smile. "It builds strength. Something I noticed you were sorely lacking when Ser Humfrey put you in the dirt this afternoon."
Matarys choked slightly on his wine, disguising it as a cough behind his linen napkin. Daenora shrank further into her seat.
Aerion’s pale, bruised-violet eyes narrowed infinitesimally, but the cruel, thin smile never left his lips. He thrived on this. "Strength is for the beasts of the field, my lady. A true prince relies on finesse and fire. But then, I wouldn't expect a rough mountain bird to understand the intricacies of a dragon's dance."
"If your dance consists of falling off a horse, I confess, it is entirely beyond my comprehension," she shot back smoothly, taking a deliberate sip of her wine.
Valarr cleared his throat softly, a clear, sharp warning. "Clarice. Aerion. The feast is meant for celebration, not sparring."
Aerion waved a dismissive, jewel-ringed hand. "Oh, peace, cousin. We are merely exchanging pleasantries. Your wife has such a... vibrant spirit." The word 'vibrant' dripped with mocking condescension, his eyes flashing with malicious delight as he prepared his next strike. He leaned back in his carved wooden chair, swirling the wine in his goblet. His pale eyes fixed on Clarice across the table. He had watched her at the joust, shouting and laughing, displaying a distinct lack of the demure silence expected of highborn ladies.
"Tell me, Lady Clarice," Aerion began, his voice a smooth, venomous drawl that cut through the low chatter of the pavilion. "Do the women of the Vale always shout quite so loudly? I confess, from the stands today, I thought someone was slaughtering a particularly vocal goose."
Matarys snorted into his cup, then quickly disguised it as a cough when Valarr shot him a warning look.
Clarice felt the immediate, hot prickle of irritation at the back of her neck. She set her silver fork down with a sharp clack. She knew Aerion’s game, but her temper was a volatile thing, a wild falcon she struggled to keep hooded.
"In the Vale, Prince Aerion," Clarice replied, her voice dangerously sweet, "we cheer for true skill. Perhaps if you possessed any, you would have heard my voice cheering for you, rather than resting in the dirt after the second tilt."
Aerion’s jaw tightened on the slightlest. He had indeed been unhorsed early in the day. Beside Clarice, Valarr shifted uncomfortably. He placed a gentle, warning hand on her knee beneath the table.
But Aerion simply smiled, a thin, cruel slash of a smile. "Skill in the lists is a knight's game. But tell me, what skills do you possess, my lady? We hear such quaint tales from Dragonstone. That you dress in men's clothes and play in the dirt with wooden swords. How... amusing." Aerion took a slow sip of wine. "One wonders if you are entirely confused about your duties as a wife. A womb is required to continue the line, Lady Clarice, not a sword arm. Though, given you have been wed a year and your belly remains flat as a boy's, perhaps you are failing at both."
The silence at the table was sudden and absolute. Daenora looked down at her plate, trembling. Matarys’s eyes went wide.
Clarice’s blood turned to liquid fire. The insult about her childlessness —a private, tender ache she and Valarr had only just begun to quietly worry over— was a low, vicious blow. Her vision narrowed. She wanted to lean across the table and drive her knife into his smug, cruel eye.
"Aerion," Valarr warned him. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek, and for a terrifying second, he looked ready to vault across the heavy oak table and wrap his hands around his cousin's throat. But his blue eyes darted to Daenora's terrified face, to Clarice, and to the servants hovering nervously at the edges of the pavilion. He forced himself still. His voice, when it came, was not raised, but it was ice-cold, possessing the hard edge of Valyrian steel. "That is enough."
"I am merely making conversation, cousin," Aerion said innocently, spreading his hands. "Is the truth an insult in the Eyrie?"
Clarice stood up so quickly her chair scraped loudly against the wooden floorboards. "The truth, Aerion, is that you are a miserable, cruel little man masquerading as a dragon. You wrap yourself in the colors of your house because without them, you are nothing but a petty bully terrified of his own pathetic shadow."
"Clarice," Valarr stood now as well, his posture rigid. He hated this. He hated the public spectacle, the loss of decorum, the breach of honor. He found it beneath them to squabble like drunkards in a tavern. Yet, despite his rigid adherence to polite indifference, he closed the distance between them. He draped a strong, heavy arm protectively around her waist, pulling her against his side. It was a physical gesture meant to steady her, but his dark glare over her shoulder served as a silent, lethal warning to Aerion to back off.
Clarice leaned slightly into his touch, but she was shaking with rage. "No, husband. I will not sit here and be spoken to like a broodmare by a man who isn't fit to polish your armor!"
Aerion chuckled, a high, mocking sound. "Oh, the falcon has talons. How adorable. Tell me, Valarr, does she squawk this much in the bedchamber, or do you manage to gag her?"
Before Clarice could reach for her wine goblet to hurl it at his head, Valarr’s hand closed tightly around her forearm. His grip was not painful in the slightest, but it was an iron restraint.
For a terrifying second, the prince looked as mad as hell itself. The veins in his neck stood out, and the sheer effort of holding his temper at bay looked physically agonizing. Clarice looked up at him, her stormy eyes flashing with a knowing, pleading look —do it, her gaze urged him, throw yourself at him and break his jaw. For a breathless moment, it looked as though Valarr was genuinely considering it, his muscles coiled to strike.
But then his eyes flicked to Aerion. He saw the sick, eager amusement dancing in his cousin's pale violet eyes, waiting for the prince to snap.
The fire in Valarr's eyes snuffed out, replaced by a glacial, unyielding calm.
"We are leaving," Valarr announced to the table, his face a mask of stone. He did not look at Aerion. He looked only at the exit of the pavilion. "Goodnight, cousin."
He turned on his heel, pulling Clarice with him. She stumbled for a step, her fury still boiling over. She shot Aerion one last, murder-stricken glare that only turned darker at the sight of him chuckling, before she allowed herself to be led out into the cool, brisk air of the keep’s hallways.
The walk back to their chambers in the castle was suffocatingly silent. The sounds of the tourney camp, singing, lutes, drunken laughter, seemed a million miles away. Clarice could feel the rigid tension radiating from Valarr’s arm where it still held hers. He didn't speak. He didn't look at her.
She hated his silence. She found his aversion to conflict, his rigid adherence to 'politeness' in the face of blatant cruelty, maddening. She wished he would just scream more often —at her, at Aerion, at whoever. She wished he wouldn't constantly shrink his emotions down to fit inside a perfectly tailored royal doublet.
They reached their assigned chambers in the guest wing of the castle. Valarr opened the heavy oak door, ushered her inside, and closed it firmly behind them. He released her arm and walked to the small table by the window. With tight, controlled movements, he poured a cup of water and turned to offer it to her, though he extended his hand with a cautious stiffness, like a handler offering meat to a riled shadowcat.
Clarice didn't take it. Instead, hitting her mark perfectly, she slapped her hand against the silver goblet, sending it clattering violently to the stone floor. Water splashed across the rugs, pooling dark against the soft, warm fabric.
Valarr didn't even flinch. He just closed his eyes and let out a long, heavy sigh, the picture of a man who knew this routine by heart. He stared at the mess for a second before lifting his gaze to hers. His face was a portrait of sheer, exhausted defeat, yet his eyes were stricken with a profound, agonizing love. "Not the good rugs, Clarice, we’re guests here," he mumbled.
He reached for her gently, offering comfort she didn't want.
Clarice shoved him away hard. Step two of the dance.
He reached for her again, ignoring the push with practiced ease, wrapping his arms tightly around her to pull her against his chest as a physical peace offering. Clarice struggled violently against him, twisting and pushing at his chest exactly as she always did when she was boiling over, refusing to be calmed. She fought him until, with a familiar, frustrated, heavy groan, Valarr released her, stepping back and pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Alright," Valarr muttered, bracing himself. "Have at it, then."
Clarice snapped at him the second she was free, falling right into her pacing rhythm.
"You let him insult me," Clarice struck first, her voice shaking, pacing the length of the room. "You sat there and let him speak to me like that!"
Valarr raised his head in a gesture that seemed exhausting, his eyes dark and stormy that matched her own. "I told him it was enough, Clarice. I ended the conversation."
"You asked him politely to stop!" she yelled, throwing her hands in the air. "He insulted my womanhood, he insulted our marriage, and you treated it like a minor breach of etiquette at a tea party! You should have struck him!"
"And what would that have achieved?" Valarr shot back, his voice finally rising, the mask of the perfect prince slipping. "You let him goad you! You played right into his hands, Clarice. You let him bait you like a green boy in a tavern!"
"Oh, is that it?" Clarice stopped pacing, staring at him in disbelief. "Because I defended myself? Because I refuse to smile and swallow his cruelty just to keep the peace?" She sneered, the angry, impulsive words bubbling up before she could stop them. "What about you embarrassing yourself? Gods, Valarr, sometimes I wonder if there is any fire in your Targaryen blood at all. You sit there smiling, trying to appease a monster, acting like a spineless craven terrified of making a scene!"
The moment they left her mouth, Clarice felt a sickening lurch of regret in her stomach. It was a cruel thing to say, and it wasn't true. She knew Valarr wasn't a craven. He was brave, he was strong. He just fought his battles differently. But her pride, still stinging from Aerion's venom, refused to let her take the words back.
Valarr went entirely still. The storm in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, deeply hurt emptiness. His jaw ticked. He set his cup down on the table with quiet, deliberate care.
"If my restraint offends you so deeply, my lady," Valarr said, his voice terrifyingly soft and formal, "then I shall leave you to your own company."
"Fine," Clarice snapped, though her voice wobbled just slightly, her eyes flashing with a sudden, panicked regret.
"Fine," Valarr echoed, his back rigid. He didn't look at her, though the tight clench of his hands betrayed how much the single word cost him.
"Perfectly fine, as a matter of fact I wouldn't wish for anything else," she bit out, wrapping her arms around her stomach as if physically wounded by the space growing between them.
"Excellent, then," he clipped, his tone utterly devoid of victory.
He turned away from her completely, walking toward the large, draped four-poster bed, beginning to unbuckle his sword belt.
Clarice stood there, her chest heaving, the anger rapidly draining away to leave a cold, miserable hollow in its wake. She had pushed too far. She always pushed too far when she was hurt. Her words shoot to kill when she’s mad, and Clarice was entirely too conscious of it.
"I need a bath," she announced suddenly, her voice cracking slightly. She didn't wait for a response. She spun around and stormed into the adjoining bathing chamber, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind her.
The bathing chamber was warm, dominated by a large copper tub that the servants had filled earlier. Steam curled through the air, carrying the scent of lavender and crushed pine. Clarice stripped off her heavy silk gown with frantic, uncoordinated movements, leaving it in a heap on the floor. She paused, catching sight of her naked figure in the tall silvered glass of the mirror. Slowly, she placed a trembling hand over her flat stomach, the private, tender ache rising up to choke her all over again. Blinking back angry tears, she turned away and climbed into the tub, the hot water biting at her skin.
She scrubbed her face furiously, trying to wash away the tears of frustration and shame that were suddenly spilling fast down her cheeks. She was furious at Aerion, furious at Valarr, but mostly, she was furiously, desperately angry at herself. Why couldn't she just hold her tongue? Why did she have to lash out at the man she loved most in the world just because someone else had hurt her?
Time lost its meaning as she sat in the water, the heat slowly seeping into her tense muscles, the steam clinging to her golden hair. The water was beginning to cool when she heard the latch of the heavy wooden door click.
Clarice froze, sinking lower into the cloudy water, pulling her knees to her chest.
The door creaked open. Valarr stepped into the room.
He had stripped down to only his linen breeches. He was barefoot, his chest bare, the dark hair falling loose around his face. The candlelight cast flickering shadows over the lean, powerful lines of his muscles. He didn't look angry anymore. He looked exhausted.
He walked slowly to the edge of the tub. For a long moment, he just looked down at her. Clarice looked back, her dark eyes red-rimmed, her chin resting on her wet knees.
Slowly, Valarr knelt on the stone floor beside the copper tub. He reached out, his hand hesitating for a fraction of a second before he gently tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers were warm against her damp skin.
"I am sorry," Valarr said quietly, his voice echoing softly in the tiled room. He paused, swallowing hard as he wrestled with his own fierce Targaryen pride, forcefully choking it down for her sake. "I should have defended you more fiercely. I should not have let him speak to you that way, nor should I have turned my back on you in our chambers. I am sorry, Clarice."
Clarice looked away, her jaw set tight. Her Arryn pride was a towering, stubborn thing, demanding she hold her ground. She stared at the stone wall for a long moment, but the gentle, persistent warmth of his hand against her skin was dismantling her defenses piece by piece. Finally, she let out a shaky breath, closing her eyes and turning her face back to lean slightly into his touch.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I am the one who..." She swallowed hard. "I shouldn't have said those things. You aren't a craven, Valarr. I know you aren't. I was just... so angry."
"I know," Valarr murmured. He picked up a linen cloth from the edge of the tub, dipped it into the warm water, and gently began to wash her shoulders. "I despise Aerion. I despise the way he speaks to you. If we were simply two men in a yard, I would have broken his jaw."
Clarice opened her eyes, looking at him in surprise. "Then why didn't you?"
Valarr sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Because that is exactly what he wants, Clarice. He feeds on chaos. He wants to drag me down into the mud with him, to make me look volatile and unhinged in front of the lords of the realm. If I strike him, he wins. The only way to defeat a man like Aerion is to deny him the reaction he craves. To show him that his words are less than wind."
He paused, his eyes meeting hers, full of a deep, earnest plea. "But I failed to protect you from that wind tonight. And for that, I am truly sorry."
Clarice reached up out of the water, her wet hands framing his face. She ran her thumbs over his cheekbones. "I have a terrible temper," she confessed softly, the fight completely gone out of her. "My brother always said my tongue would start a war one day."
Valarr leaned into her hands, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through the exhaustion on his face. "It is a formidable weapon, to be sure."
"I just..." Clarice hesitated to find the words. "When he spoke of... of children. It… it hurt."
Valarr’s expression softened into overwhelming tenderness. He leaned forward, kissing her forehead, then her wet cheek. "Aerion is a snake, and he speaks poison. We have time, my love. We have all the time in the world. You are my wife, Clarice. I love you beyond words. That is all that matters to me."
He pulled back slightly, looking at her face, tracing the curve of her jaw. His smile turned teasing, the familiar, playful light returning to his eyes.
"Though I must admit," Valarr said, a hint of affection mocking in his tone, "you are terribly easy to bait, my love. A blind man with a stick could provoke you to a duel."
Clarice gasped, a bubble of surprised laughter escaping her lips. "I am not!" She narrowed her eyes, splashing a small handful of water directly into his face.
Valarr sputtered, blinking away the water as it dripped from his eyelashes and ran down his bare chest. He looked at her in mock outrage, then let out a rich, booming laugh.
"Oh, you are," Valarr insisted, his eyes crinkling. "Of course you are irresistible bait to a weasel like Aerion."
Clarice let out a genuine laugh, the last of her tension finally dissolving into the steam. "Next time," she warned playfully, a wicked glint in her eye, "I'll get him so hard with that sweep you taught me that he won't be able to speak for a month."
Valarr let out a dark, amused chuckle. "If you do, I shall order him dressed in motley and turned into the court jester. I believe it shall be of great service to the Realm." He knew his wife well; she had a delightfully morbid streak, and the mental image of the vain Aerion forced to caper in bells and sing for his supper pleased her immensely.
Clarice laughed with him, the sound bouncing off the stone walls, bright and clear and full of relief. The heavy, ugly tension of the evening dissolved, washed away by the warm water and the absolute certainty of his love.
Their marriage wasn't perfect. They were fire and air, honor and impulse.They would fight again; she would undoubtedly say things she regretted, and he would undoubtedly frustrate her with his stoicism.
Valarr reached into the tub, his warm hands gripping her shoulders. He pulled her slightly upward, his brow arching as he felt her chilled skin. "By the Seven, Clarice, you're freezing. Were you planning to sit in here until you turned to ice?"
"Absolutely yes," she retorted, her teeth chattering playfully just a bit as she offered a haughty, shivering smirk. "I fully intended to freeze to death right here, just so the entire realm could see what a horribly unattending husband you are."
"Oh, I am unattending, am I?" he murmured, a dangerous, playful glint returning to his eyes. He hooked his arms firmly under hers, pulling her entirely out of the water in one smooth motion. "I suppose I will just have to work twice as hard to attend to you now."
He kissed her deeply as the cold water cascaded off her skin, the warmth of his mouth chasing away the chill. Wrapping a thick linen towel around her shoulders, he swept her effortlessly into his arms and carried her out of the bathing chamber.
"Put me down, you bore," she laughed, leaning her head against his chest. She could hear his heart, and feel the strong, steady beats against her own. THUD-THUD-THUD. Clarice wondered whether there had ever been a more perfect sound in the world.
"Never," he promised, walking past their bed, his long strides carrying them toward the heavy oak door that led back out into the castle corridors.
Clarice lifted her head, arching an eyebrow. "The bed is behind us, my prince," she teased. "Is your eyesight failing you already? I knew Targaryens aged quickly, but this is tragic."
Valarr huffed a laugh, adjusting his grip to hold her more securely against his chest as he pushed the door open with his shoulder. "My eyesight is perfectly fine, my love."
"Then where are we going?" she asked, shivering slightly as the cooler air of the corridor hit her damp skin.
"You are still freezing," he explained softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "And the hearth in our room has burned down to embers. There is a roaring fire in the solar down the hall, and I fully intend to sit you in front of it until you are warm again."
Clarice chuckled, settling herself deeper into his chest. “That is a long walk, my prince.”
“I know,”
“Are you quite sure you’re fit for it?” She teased him, as her legs dangled playfully over his arms.
Valarr looked down at her, and simply chuckled, shifting her mumbling weight further into his chest.
"Your arms are going to grow horribly tired, my prince. I am absolutely certain you'll get so exhausted you'll drop me on the cold stone floor before we even make it."
Valarr shook his head, his voice dripping with an all too adoring affection. “You’re an absolute terror,”
“I am a terror,” Clarice agreed, cheekily.
THUD-THUD-THUD.
Surely, Clarice decided, certain as the rivers find the sea, this is the sweetest one.