Chapter Text
207 a.C.
By the time the candles lit up and the crickets sang their usual sonata, the whole realm knew prince Valarr took prince Daeron’s hand in marriage, for the grand hall of the Red Keep glowed in golden glory, where the finest decorations lived up to the celebration, chanting the words fire and blood for those who admired the grand event.
At the very spotlight, the high table of the royal family gazed upon the rows of tables in which their most important guests dined with tables full of wine and delectably pastries carefully picked for their guests to enjoy whilst some danced. A joyful gathering for those outside the Targaryen family, whose expression of plenitude concealed their true feelings.
Up there, Daeron could behold the lords and ladies who spinned around in a tumultuous manner that left him dizzying in his seat, setting his arms at the table for support. He too cupped a glass of the finest wine in his hand, so unlikely of the cheapest beverage he drank at the nearest taverns in Summerhall or, worse, the Flea Bottom.
His grandsire, king Daeron II had ordered their wedding take place at the earliest convenience, for he knew the growing whisperings of his grandson’s escapades, making the easiest and fastest solution to save the grace of his bearer grandchild.
Such a decision did not bother to follow what the king had promised to prince Baelor: Valarr should wed until he reached his six-and-ten namedays, and most importantly, that he would marry Kiera of Tyrosh, a petition made by the heir himself.
Turns out one of his escapades later deemed the promise naught for Daeron’s reputation seemed worthier. He still could not look his stepfather in the eye without nervously laughing. And what confused him the most was… he never really saw that marriage outcome in his dreams, something was shifting in real time.
And such change had him craving some sort of connection with the living doll he married.
“Do you find arbor gold fine for your taste?” He slurred feathery, looking at his cousin’s right side profile, of his upturned pretty nose and freckles he desired their future children to have.
The four-and-ten man turned to him, eyes contemplating from Daeron’s blushing cheeks downwards the golden cup resting in his hand.
“I most certainly do, I chose arbor gold for our wedding.” He stated, examining him once again before looking straight ahead, slightly unconvinced of Daeron’s failed attempt.
So much for crossing bridges.
“You must hate me.”
Daeron tried to get any sort of reaction from him, to chase away the mask of the statue of the prince Valarr had donned ever since they met.
His husband turned to him once more, for a feeble moment he saw a shine upon his face highlighting his expression. Cold. No, grave. Neither, it was pure hopelessness. Then, leering… dreamy! None of those, only glazed… Only, only, only… Only Daeron was dreaming, blinking hard so he could chase away the mistyness clouding up his eyesight, so he could witness his real prince Valarr. Or the one in his present nonetheless.
What he found seemed so simple, mundane. Just a simple peering face, with those pretty eyes slowly blinking his confusion away. Daeron knew by then, that the core of all the expressions the younger prince made resided in his eyes, unlike his face, who only mimicked the statues in the sept. Ever silent, ever poised.
“Why should I?”
“Why should you not?”
Valarr almost smiled, showing his right canine that Daeron always believed it resembled a fang. He could feel the teeth biting into his throat, a past, present and future phantom tingling in his scent gland, where one day his mark would perch on in the true sense of Valyria fashion that the lords of Westeros despised. A true Targaryen practice besides marrying siblings.
“If it helps, I think you are most certainly pretty.” He stated, looking straight ahead, as if the buzzing people were more important.
Whatever deity deemed worthy of this complete change of destiny, Daeron wondered if it made the right decision after all.
When Daeron looked away from his husband’s side, prince Matarys set his eyes in an obvious attempt to scrutinize him, mouth curled in a half a sneer, hand gripping his own cup more tightly than Daeron did. His red hair shined fiercely underneath the warm light, red and black doublet tightly wrapped around his body, looking more refined than Daeron certainly did.
If anyone had objected to Valarr marrying Daeron, Matarys did, all politics aside.
Daeron half paid attention to him, raising his cup ever so slightly in a poor attempt in staying cordial for both of them. He did not have in him to care for his hostile stepsibling, not when all he glimpsed was the Stranger’s arms clasped around Matarys’ body any moment he dignified Daeron with his presence. It seemed easier for him, too, to ignore Balerion’s firm hand perched on Valarr’s shoulder.
He knew why... Baelor’s sons relationship with both Daeron and Aerion was finicky at best, with their only real connection being the siblings they shared since the Prince of Dragonstone married the Prince of Summerhall in the year one hundreth and ninety-nine since Aegon the Conqueror unified the realm.
And even then, both Valarr and Matarys were cousins at best for Aemon, Daella, Egg and Rhae. And it showed the moment Maekar passed sweet Rhae into Valarr’s arms, who gaped and got paler, trying his best to keep her entertained.
Oh, his beautiful siblings… He wished to be with them at the very moment instead of being in the spotlight.
“Ignore Matarys,” Valarr leaned over, hand softly grasping his left forearm. “He is very much displeased by my lord father, not you.”
Daeron had the mind to not say the contrary.
Instead, he only said, “shall we move forward?”
He stumbled whilst getting up, quite ready for whatever could happen next.
“Take my arm.” Valarr softly instructed, face blank again, raising up from his seat with the grace Daeron lacked.
He arched his arm, waiting patiently for his wife to hold him. Daeron found himself staring at it, seeing the same arm cradling a bundle. When he blinked, Valarr’s mismatched eyes were gazing at him, face unperturbed. He relished all of his husband’s emotions displayed in those irises, glowing as the beacon on Hightower.
”All is fine?” Valarr quietly inquired, tugging the bearer into walking.
Daeron nodded in an up and down movement, following the young man dutifully.
As both reached the stairs, Daeron came across upon Bryden Rivers' watchful eye, who stood by a long pillar with a small frown, likely gathering intel for the king. The raven failed in wearing a weak impression of interest, with his back leaned in, eye tracing Valarr’s shoulder Daeron constantly tried to ignore, and when the bastard realized his nephew spotted him, he maintained his gaze still, a predator sizing up his prey.
A mutual understanding left both men somber.
The bloodraven silently left without any other acknowledgement for the married couple, inflicting a sour taste in prince Valarr's wife. For that is what Daeron became for the rest of his youth.
The fussy and messy feeling only worsened upon spiraling in the dance floor. Keeping himself at bay as to not throw up in his husband’s shoes, watching all the silhouettes changing into shapes and gloom.
By the time the night began to cast tiredness on those who celebrated, Maekar stole Daeron from Valarr’s hold, a hand at his neck leading him towards his new chambers and impeding any bedding after the feast. Daeron knew his father specially asked for it, in a last resort of protecting his bearer son of further shame for not being a maiden.
“Give him a rinse.” He brawled at the poor servants, pacing around the room.
“Father.” He muttered, eyes looking up from the place he sat by, pleading.
“If you must feign pain, do so.” He reprimanded, fisting his hands. “You disgraced yourself enough this morning doing gods know what the night before.”
“I did not do anything unworthy.” His voice broke by the end.
“It matters naught. This is the opportunity of your lifetime, act like it.” He finally stood still, eyes pining his son. “Your grandfather gave you mercy, marrying you with the highest treasure of this godsforsaken family, you shall live up to this fucking match.”
“I did not ask for it.” Daeron said low, tears gathering in his eyes.
At last, Maekar softened his gaze.
“As princes of the realm, it is duty that decides our fate.”
He walked until he reached Daeron sitting body, looking down at him, studying. His father caressed his cheek in such an ephemeral touch that he wondered if he was dreaming.
“I only hope both of you learn to be happy at the very least, for you both carry the future of our house.”
He took a few steps back, leading himself at the door, and with one hand at the door frame, he gave him a last stare.
“Your undergarment is on the bed, make yourself presentable.”
Valarr closed the door firmly behind, back resting on the hard surface. He stopped still when he caught the sight of Daeron, peering directly at his body, looking up and down through the tunic made of a translucent fabric chosen by Maekar. The most delicate and tender piece of undergarment he ever wore in his life, for Daeron could be anything but a normal bearer. Such a contradiction, because he did not even reach the Targaryen standards of male bearers warriors.
He could feel the cold air hardening his nipples, sensitive against the soft fabric, almost bare if not by the piece of fabric.
The world buzzed, making Daeron sit immediately on the edge of the bed, closing his eyes to stop the tumbling world and its everlasting sparks of future.
Firm footsteps approached him by his left, sound hollow and dry against the crunching wood succumbing in the chimney. The rustling only let him know Valarr most likely was getting undressed and when he heard the fabric emitting such a quiet sound as it hit the floor, all of his assumptions proved correct.
“Should I lie?” He suggested, hands fisted at his sides, gripping the sheets in a lackluster attempt at soothing himself, the same way he did when he was a child.
“If it is your wish... You must be tired, besides being incredibly drunk.” Valarr's voice was velvety, reminding him of prince Baelor's soft voice as he grew up.
The sharp sound from metal unsheathed made him finally open his eyes.
A small blade resided in Valarr’s grip, who was already in his undergarments and his hair tussled, betraying his endeavour of hiding his uneasy posture. And looking directly at Valarr´s chest, Daeron could actually see the small freckles donning the skin at his clavicle, mirroring little stars of brown speckles.
Right, the blade.
“If you wished to be widowed, all you need is to request it.” He babbled, scrambling in the bed until his back hit the headboard, heart thundering inside the cavity of his chest.
“Seven hells.” Valarr muttered, confused. “You think so lowly of me to even entertain the notion of me hurting you?”
His husband got closer, stealthily looking, eyes cautious until he crawled in fours and stopped close, kneeling just right before Daeron’s arms hugged his knees up his chest.
“Stay calm, I would never let anything befall you.” He whispered, before making a small incision in his own forearm, blood dripping down. His efforts to remain stoic were naught, mouth frowning in pain.
Daeron was seeing flying colors.
“You are my wife, I shall protect you.”
He smeared the warm liquid in the sheets, in a sensible way which could pass as Daeron’s first coupling, just the right amount. Then, he took one of Daeron’s calves, not before locking his piercing eyes to Daeron’s glistening ones.
“May I?” He softly asked.
“What?”
“Down there, so they believe we consummated... Only enough.”
“Why?” Despite what he asked, he spread his legs.
Valarr’s fingers touched the necessary surface of Daeron’s cunt, retracting his hand, burned by his wife’s hot body.
“I do not wish to take advantage of you.” He sat, pressing his small wound. “You are drunk.”
“I belong to you. It does not matter if I am a little buzzed out.” The statement didn’t go over Valarr’s head. “My body and womb are at your mercy.”
Valarr hissed. “We shall do it whenever you please, just not like… this.”
Both looked at the sullied sheets.
“I know you lost your maidenhead.” He whispered, eyes leveled.
“Oh…” His cheeks glowed in red embarrassment. “And you? You kept yourself for marriage?”
Had his father heard him, he would close his eyes in exhaustion, for Daeron always jested when uncomfortable. Inopportune at times.
“No.” Valarr laid down beside Daeron, looking directly at the bed canopy, arms resting in his stomach, where the blood marred his beige tunic. His brown eye glowed dark under the pale candle light.
“How so?”
“Kiera of Tyrosh.” He admitted. “She said we would get married, what should we wait for?”
It stung more than Daeron could handle at the moment, so he remained silent, his scent carefully muted.
“Just stay safe.” Valarr asked. “I can request moon tea if you are in need of it.”
He didn’t know which hurt most, the blatant distrust or the indifference of it all.
“We should sleep, I ordered we should not be disturbed all night.”
Who was Daeron to deny him?